By John Keats (1795 - 1821)
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.
By John Keats (1795 - 1821)
I like classical literature. This is awesome. "Yet do I often warmly burn to see" this phrase is worth a lot. Great!
| Poem | Author |
| The Secret People | G K Chesterton |
| Alcuin's Poem of York | Alcuin (735 - 804) |
| A Dream Or No | Thomas Hardy © (1840 - 1928) |
| Cornish Cliffs | Sir John Betjeman © (1906 - 1984) |
| Ludlow | John Creber © |
| Jerusalem | William Blake |
| Home Thoughts, From Abroad | Robert Browning (1812 - 1889) |
| The Soldier | Rupert Brooke (1887 - 1915) |
| England, My England | William Ernest Henley (1849 - 1903) |
| Young England | William Wordsworth (1770 - 1850) |
| Song to the men of England | Percy Bysshe Shelley |
| I Wandered Lonely As A Cloud | William Wordsworth (1770 - 1850) |
| ETERNAL ENGLAND | Thurstan Bassett © |
| Memories of Winter on a Dorset Moor | Harry E Wheeler © |
| The English Country Lane | Chris Plows © |
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