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.