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.