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