The World Is Too Much With Us

William Wordsworth

1770 to 1850

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A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
It moves us not. Great God! I'd rather be
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;—
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathèd horn.
The world is too much with us; late and soon,