"The world is too much with us; [more] 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. "

   Written by William Wordsworth