Happy is England! I could be

content

To see no other verdure then 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.