I.
oh, to be in England now that April’s there
And whoever wakes in England sees, some morning, unaware,
That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf
Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf,
While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough
In England—now!
II.
And after April, when May follows
And the white-throat builds,...
Bereaved of all, I went abroad —
No less bereaved was I
Upon a New Peninsula —
The Grave preceded me —
Obtained my Lodgings, ere myself —
And when I sought my Bed —
The Grave it was reposed upon
The Pillow for my Head —
I waked to find it first awake —
I...
It makes no difference abroad —
The Seasons — fit — the same —
The Mornings blossom into Noons —
And split their Pods of Flame —
Wild flowers — kindle in the Woods —
The Brooks slam — all the Day —
No Black bird bates his Banjo —
For passing Calvary —
Auto da Fe — and...
Of all the Sounds despatched abroad,
There's not a Charge to me
Like that old measure in the Boughs —
That phraseless Melody —
The Wind does — working like a Hand,
Whose fingers Comb the Sky —
Then quiver down — with tufts of Tune —
Permitted Gods, and me —
Inheritance, it...
