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Poems
The
world is too much with us; late and soon
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 wreathed horn.