by JohnKeats
To Kosciusko

Happy is England! I could be content

 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.