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.

-John Keats