HOME THOUGHTS, FROM ABROAD. 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 And after April, when May follows, And the white-throat builds, and all the swallows! The first fine careless rapture! And, though the fields look rough with hoary dew, |