the world is too much with us

william wordsworth’un dogadan kopu$u ele$tiren $iiri ;

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 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.