| |
|
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 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.
|
|
|
