Robert Browning
Oh, to be in England
I
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!
II
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!
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