The world is too much with us (El mundo nos abruma) — William Wordsworth

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;The Winds that will be howling at all hoursAnd are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;For this, for every thing, we are out of tune;It moves us not— Great God! I'd rather beA Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,Have glimpses that would make me less forlornHave sight of Proteus coming from the sea;Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.