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William Wordsworth

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 every thing, 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 pleasing 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.

   

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