At last, oh England, comes the day
when you defy those that fly away.
And every virtue far estranged
is in your home-fields rearranged.
Your sun, like African gold fresh opened
to vaults the realm of azure Titan,
that winding white of Tuscan hills
leads back round English daffodils.
The orchard white as Arctic drifts
Nay more like Dover's royal cliffs
and slack'ning Zephyrs but amplify
enchanting birds swift to oblige.
And with the mown, sun-shuttered turf
comes clarity - hence is winter burst,
and coupling all around the land
rehearses human love recrowned.
What mirror can I be of she
who sets the mirror down for me,
but still, ere springing fancy flees,
will her and me among the trees.