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 brushwood sheaf

Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf,

While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough

In England—now!

    And after April, when May follows,

And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows!

Hark, where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge

Leans to the field and scatters on the clover

Blossoms and dewdrops—at the bent spray’s edge—

That’s the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over,

Lest you should think he never could recapture

The first fine careless rapture!

And though the fields look rough with hoary dew,

All will be gay when noontide wakes anew

The buttercups, the little children’s dower

—Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower!

‘Home Thoughts from Abroad’ is Robert Browning, away holidaying in Italy with his wife, Elizabeth Barrett, and obviously missing the Northern European Spring. This poem dates from about the 1850s. Husband and wife spent a great deal of their time in Italy, not just for cultural edification, but also, like many others, to escape the horrors of the English winter.

It is thought that Elizabeth suffered from a possibly inherited condition called Hypokalemic Periodic Paralysis, an incurable disease which robs the blood of potassium. This leaves the sufferer wide open to much more intense reactions to quite ordinary things like sleep, salt, exercise, hunger and a host of others including heat and cold. The condition was not recognised until about 1900, nearly forty years after Elizabeth’s death.

The condition being undiagnosed at the time, all sorts of remedies were offered, including opium, which caused Elizabeth to become a lifelong addict. Doubtless the balmier climes of Italy were recommended for her health so a good deal of time was spent there. At some point during these overseas trips Browning penned this poem which begins with the heartfelt, nostalgic cry which you can still hear on any expat’s lips, even if the expat in question hasn’t the foggiest idea who penned it.

Oh, to be in England
Now that April’s there…’

 And vividly the poet remembers (and envies)

‘…whoever wakes in England…’

Because they will see what the poet cannot see, and can only imagine; the green bud-bursting leaves on the lower elm bran\ches. The self-sown tiny new elm trees surrounding the elm bole, shouldering their way up to the light, the delightful chaffinch singing away. Northern Europeans forget the freezing weather, the jumpers and jackets and wooly vests and remember only the more pleasant aspects, the good bits.

And soon there’s May, with first the nest building whitethroats and then the endlessly acrobatic swallows easily able to  mesmerise us with their grace and skill.

Somewhere in a hedge near  Browning’s home in England, there’s an old pear tree he remembers and he knows precisely how that tree is behaving. In his mind’s eye he can see it overhanging the field and extravagantly spreading its white blossoms on the clovered grass.  In the branches there’s a thrush.  Famously, the songs of the European thrushes easily equal that of our finest composers.  Here’s one, remembered in Browning’s mind, who sings a song of extraordinary complexity and then, just to show you it wasn’t a fluke, he repeats it precisely all over again! Look how Browning puts this;

‘…That’s the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over
Lest you should think he never could recapture
That first careless rapture!…’

This is the work of a real poet. This is a splendidly put description of the thrush’s command of exquisite melody. These are lines Browning is justly famous for.

The frost on the ground, ‘…the hoary dew…’ will soon melt away and midday will reveal the golden buttercups, there for the children to check under chins for their ‘dower’ their annual inheritance, whose colour is far brighter than the (to Browning) ‘…gaudy melon-flower…’ which is all about him in deepest Italy!

Browning, as poets do, ‘…owns…’ a season as did Matthew Prior, Wordsworth and countless others. They celebrate that season but theirs is a courtly love, full of reverence and respect. They ‘…own…’ their season only in that they record it in a way that a great painter might. The difference is that poets make their brushstrokes in our minds.

Ira Maine, Poetry Editor