Happy Is England

John Keats

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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