XVII.
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appy is England! I could be contentTo see no other verdure than its own;To feel no other breezes than are blownThrough its tall woods with high romances blent:Yet do I sometimes feel a languishmentFor skies Italian, and an inward groanTo 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 seeBeauties of deeper glance, and hear their singing,And float with them about the summer waters.
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