document.write("Happy is England! I could be content<br />To see no other verdure than its own;<br />To feel no other breezes than are blown<br />Through its tall woods with high romances blent;<br />Yet do I sometimes feel a languishment<br />For skies Italian, and an inward groan<br />To sit upon an Alp as on a throne,<br />And half forget what world or worldling meant.<br />Happy is England, sweet her artless daughters;<br />Enough their simple loveliness for me,<br />Enough their whitest arms in silence clinging;<br />Yet do I often warmly burn to see<br />Beauties of deeper glance, and hear their singing,<br />And float with them about the summer waters.");