Since it’s St. George’s Day … and since it’s also National Poetry Month … and since it’s April … and since my English husband always has an attack of homesickness at this time of year … and since I am a mega fan of Victorian poetry … and since this is my blog and I can post whatever moves me, I give you:
Home Thoughts, from Abroad
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
And after April, when May follows,
And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows!
Hark, where my blossom’d 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 twice over,
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!
Now we’ll let Dame Vera wrap up this post in a manner most fitting. Enjoy.