Here have I learnt the little that I know,

Here where in these untutored woodland ways

The primrose, all unconscious of our praise,

Dimpled the dainty coverlet of the snow,

March’s first-born, and, still averse to go,

Though drowsy-lidded, dallies and delays

When, dawning through the bluebell’s heavenly haze,

June into full mid-summer broadeneth slow.

Forgive me, friend, if these mean more to me,

Imbue my being with a deeper lore,

Come nearer to my heart, instruct me more

In what I am and what I fain would be,

Even than Sabine summit, Oscan shore,

Or Tiber curving tawnily to the sea.’

Alfred Austin
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