The World 
	
	 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!
	 The 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 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 pleasant lea,
	 Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
	 Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
	 Or hear old Triton blow his wreath�d horn.
	
	 -  William Wordsworth