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This England - - The Editor's Letter - ROBERT BROWN­ING (1812-1889)

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!

“He is not de­serv­ing of the name of English­man who speaketh against ale; that is, good ale.” — GE­ORGE BOR­ROW (1803-1881)

View from the Wrekin, Shropshire. JOHN HAY­WARD

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