XVIII

  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 up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;
  For this, for every thing, 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 pleasant lea,
  Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
  Have sight of Proteus coming from the sea;
  Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.

• About William Wordsworth