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13. May 2006

Happy is England

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. 

John Keats (1795-1821)