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Sonnet

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 wordling 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 . 1796-1820
 
 






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Sonnet - John Keats - poetry, poems

poetry-love-poems.com is a poetry project to make a poetry collection avaliable on the internet to enable our users to read the poems online. The poetry, classical poem, love poems, etc. are taken from old, antiquarian books and are in parts added with further informations.