Arthur Quiller-Couch, ed. 1919. The Oxford Book of English Verse: 1250–1900.
William Wordsworth. 1770–1850535. The World
| 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; | 5 |
| The winds that will be howling at all hours, | |
| And are up-gather’d 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; | 10 |
| 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 wreathèd horn. |