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Happy is
England! I could be content
To see no other verdure
than its own;
To feel no other breezes than are blown
Through its tall woods with high romances blent;
Yet
do I sometimes feel a languishment
For skies Italian,
and an inward groan
To sit upon an Alp as on a
throne,
And half forget what world or worldling
meant.
Happy is England, sweet her artless daughters;
Enough their simple loveliness for me,
Enough their
whitest arms in silence clinging;
Yet do I often
warmly burn to see
Beauties of deeper glance, and
hear their singing,
And float with them about the
summer waters.
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