Poet! in other lands, when Spring no more <br />Gleams o'er the grass, nor in the thicket-side <br />Plays at being lost and laughs to be descried, <br />And blooms lie wilted on the orchard floor, <br />Then the sweet birds that from Ægean shore <br />Across Ausonian breakers thither hied, <br />Own April's music in their breast hath died, <br />And croft and copse resound not as before. <br />But, in this privileged Isle, this brave, this blest, <br />This deathless England, it seems always Spring. <br />Though graver wax the days, Song takes not wing. <br />In Autumn boughs it builds another nest: <br />Even from the snow we lift our hearts and sing, <br />And still your voice is heard above the rest.<br /><br />Alfred Austin<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/to-alfred-tennyson/
