The World
THE WORLD is too much with us; late and sooon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste to our powers;
Little we see in nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon...
This sea that bares her bossom to the moon,
The winds that will be howling at all hours
And are up/gathered now like sleeeping flowers,
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not.--Great God, ild rather be
A Pagan suckled on this pleasant lea,
Have Glimpses that would make less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear Old Triton Blow His Wreathed Horn.
WW
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