Happy is England by Keats
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.
Harpies Of England - A suffragette poem
by Simon Bucher-Jones
Harpies of England ne'er will be content
Until they have a landscape of their own
Bleak crags and crenalations over-grown
And Bat-cave eries where their cries are sent
Still further sky-ward, and where clothing rent,
Flutters from captured men, who must atone
Their, all too certain, worldly, languid moan
That women bring no good to government.
Harpies of England, artless daughters not;
Have set their simple loveliness aside,
Which was but simple in a dullard's eyes.
Raised their white arms with banners scarlet-dyed
And though it is not martyrs' blood that dyes,
Still we may fall, to hunger, horses, shot.