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Happy Easter from a bright sunny England


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The view from my window taken on 16/4/2006 9:18

Home Thoughts, From Abroad
Robert Browning

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 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!

On the stone in the picture there is engraved:

Contemplate a tangled bank,
clothed with many plants of many kinds,
with birds singing on the bushes,
with various insects flitting about,
and
with worms crawling through the damp earth:
these elaborately constructed forms
have all been produced by laws
acting around us.
Thus, the war of nature,
from famine and death,
the production of higher animals
directly follows.
There is grandeur in this view of life:
whilst the planet has gone
cycling on according to
the fixed law of gravity,
from so simple a beginning
endless forms most beautiful and
most wonderful have been
and are being
evolved.

- Charles Darwin

Comments

Love it. Ex-pat living on Cape Breton Island, Nova Scotia, the snow has gone and the grass is just turning slightly green, willows in bud, a few crocus, otherwise bare trees still.

A Happy Easter to you and your family!

And Thanks for the poem. It was one of my father's favourites, and brought back many happy memories for me :)

Easter Sunday was 94 degrees here in Dallas (admittedly, an all-time record).

Your pic and poem make me homesick... and I'm not even English.

Bloody propagandists.

My Dad died without visiting the UK, but he knew plenty of Browning and Wordsworth, and shared his love of their poetry with me. When I was lucky enough to visit, this patrimony stood me in good stead. I'm doing my best to pass this on to my own son.

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