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
| Classic Poems |
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