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.