H.C.Love  sunshine, sea, and me

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,    

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. 

 - Wordsworth