Happy is England...

I think it is time for another poem.

John Keats was born in London, on 31st October, 1795.  As a result of tuberculosis, (very common at the time), Keats was seriously ill by the time he was just 25 years old.  His condition continued to deteriorate, and although he had moved to a warmer climate in Italy, John Keats died 23rd February, 1821.  He was buried in the Protestant Cemetery in Rome.
Despite having lived only twenty-five years, Keats left us with a remarkable collection of works, and is rightly regarded as one of England's truly great poets.  One of his best-loved works is Happy is England :

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 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 see
Beauties of deeper glance, and hear their singing,
And float with them about the summer waters.