The World

 The world is too much with us; late and soon,
   To get and to spend, we lay waste our might:
   There's not much in the World we have by right;
 We gave our hearts forth, a soiled boon!
 This sea that lays her breast bare to the moon;
   The winds that howled all through the day and night,
   And are drawn up now like blooms that sleep tight;
 For this, for all things, we are out of tune;
 It moves us not.--Great God!  I'd soon as be
   Not Christ's man, raised on a creed out worn,
 So might I, as I stand on on this nice lea,
   Catch a glimpse that'd make me less loss-lorn,
 Catch sight of that Old Man rise from his Sea,
  Or hear his son blow on his weed-wreathed horn.

                                -- Will Worth a Word