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 brush-wood shea… - Robert Browning

Fear death?—to feel the fog in my throat,
The mist in my face.
. . . . . . .
No! let me taste the whole of it, fare like my peers,
The heroes of old;
Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad life's arrears

You should not take a fellow eight years old And make him swear to never kiss the girls.

All June, I bound the rose in sheaves.
Now, rose by rose, I strip the leaves,
And strew them where Pauline may pass.
She will not turn aside? Alas!
Let them lie. Suppose they die?
The chance was they might take her eye.

How many a month I strove to suit
These stubborn fingers to the lute!
To-day I venture all I know.
She will not hear my music? So!
Break the string — fold music's wing.
Suppose Pauline had bade me sing!

My whole life long I learned to love. This hour my utmost art I prove And speak my passion. — Heaven or hell? She will not give me heaven? 'Tis well! Lose who may — I still can say, Those who win heaven, blest are they.