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 creed outworn; So might I, standing on this peasant 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.

~ Wordsworth, 1896