Better grey lakes, grey mountains, and grey skies,
With song of water-brooks and sound of rain,
Than that immeasurable Lombard plain—
For all its vines and corn and mulberries—
Sunburnt to silence: with what sweet surprise
The mellow ouzel greets us once again!
Clear and familiar from the springing grain,
With what a sense of home the corncrake cries!
But not the cry of crake, nor throstle’s tune,
Nor daisied fields, nor plumy laurel-bowers
That gleam snow-white at evening’s long-lit
So made me sure of Cumberland and June,
As Crosthwaite lanes full-breathed of elder-flowers,
And hedges broidered over with wild rose.
(Sonnets in Switzerland and Italy, p. 163)