'Oh, to be in England
Now that April's there.
'

So plained the Poet from a land of fire,
Forgetful of the gaudy melon-bloom,
Heart-hungry for his English daffodils
And for the elm-tree's tiny crinkled green.
_He did not know the land of my desire,
The wild bees on the lilac's purple plume,
The sun-transfigured glory of the hills,
And May on Oread, glad and sweet and clean.