Sonnet XVII: Happy Is England


    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.


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