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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=420966" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Happy Is England! I Could Be Content</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=420966" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">Happy is England! I could be content<br>To see no other verdure than its own;<br>To feel no other breezes than are blown<br>Through its tall woods with high romances blent;<br>Yet do I sometimes feel a languishment<br>For skies Italian, and an inward groan<br>To sit upon an Alp as on a throne,<br>And half forget what world or worldling meant.<br>Happy is England, sweet her artless daughters;<br>Enough their simple loveliness for me,<br>Enough their whitest arms in silence clinging;<br>Yet do I often warmly burn to see<br>Beauties of deeper glance, and hear their singing,<br>And float with them about the summer waters.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=John+Keats">John Keats</a></strong></div>

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