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

What's a man's age? He must hurry more, that's all; Cram in a day, what his youth took a year to hold:

That's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over, Lest you should think he never could recapture The first fine careless rapture!

One who never turned his back but marched breast forward, Never doubted clouds would break, Never dreamed, though right were worsted, wrong would triumph, Held…

The thundering waves are calling me home to you The pounding sea is calling me home to you

Be it granted me to behold you again in dying, Hills of home!

it's spring when the world is puddle-wonderful