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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=540198" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The world is too much with us; late and soon</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=540198" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">The world is too much with us; late and soon,<br> Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers:<br> Little we see in Nature that is ours;<br> We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!<br> This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;<br> The winds that will be howling at all hours,<br> And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;<br> For this, for everything, we are out of tune,<br> It moves us not.--Great God! I'd rather be<br> A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;<br> So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,<br> Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;<br> Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;<br> Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=William+Wordsworth">William Wordsworth</a></strong></div>

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