'The world is too much with us; late and soon
Getting and spending we lay waste our powers
Little we see in nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon;
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,
For this, for everything we are out of tune:
It moves us not. Great God! I'd rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn
So might I, standing on this leasant lea
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn
Have sight of Proteus coming from sea,
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn'.