Oh, to be in England
now that April's there,
And whoever wakes in
England sees, some morning, unaware,
That the lowest
boughs and the brushwood sheaf
Round the elm-tree
bole are in tiny leaf,
While the chaffinch
sings on the orchard bough in England - now!
And after April, when
May follows, and the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows!
Hark, where my
blossomed pear-tree in the hedge leans to the field and scatters on the clover
Blossoms and dewdrops
- at the bent spray's edge -
That's the wise
thrush; he sings each song twice over,
Lest you should think
he never could recapture the first fine careless rapture!
And though the fields
look rough with hoary dew, all will be gay when noontide wakes anew
The buttercups, the
little children's dower - Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower!
– Robert Browning
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