The world is too much with us. Late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers.
Little we see around us that is ours:
This sea that bares her bosom to the moon,
The winds that will be howling at all hours
And are upgathered now like sleeping flowers....

It moves us not. Great God, I'd rather be
A pagan suckled in a creed outworn.
So might I, standing on this pleasant lee
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn,
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.

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