XVII.

        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,                      10
            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.

Keats, John. 1884. Poetical Works.