One of my favourite poems by Browning.
Posting it in a similar vein to my last OP here:
7th April: Seeing that even the wealthy and powerful have little protection from this virus – PM Boris Johnston now in critical care – it make a person reflect on what we take for granted like the Spring. One day ago 786 souls once in England are now gone. R.I.P.
With little road noise now, I hear the birds on their down chorus and try to take in nature thinking of those in hospital who may not see another Spring or ever seeing “the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf, While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough..”
Anyway, a poem to be enjoyed any time but special now, in my view, as we appreciate the world around us that will be there long after us…hopefully.
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!
And after April, when May follows,
And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows!
Hark, where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge
Leans to the field and scatters on the clover
Blossoms and dewdrops – at the bent
spray’s edge –
That’s the wise thrush; he sings each song
Lest you should think he never could recapture
The first fine careless rapture!
And though the fields look rough with hoary dew,
All will be gay when noontide wakes anew
The buttercups, the little children’s dower
– Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower!