Home-Thoughts, from Abroad

Oh, to be in EnglandNow that April’s there,And who wakes in EnglandSees, some morning, unaware,That the lowest boughs and the brush-wood sheafRound the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf,While the chaffinch sings on the orchard boughIn England—now!

And after April, when May follows,And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows—Hark! where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedgeLeans to the field and scatters on the cloverBlossoms and dewdrops—at the bent spray’s edge—That’s the wise thrush; he sings each song twice overLest you should think he never could recaptureThe first fine careless rapture!And though the fields are rough with hoary dew,All will be gay when noontide wakes anewThe buttercups, the little children’s dower,—Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower!