I shall be happy all the long day here,
But not till night shall they go up the steep,
And, nervous now because the end is near,
Totter at last to quietness and to sleep.
And men who find it easier to forget,
In England here, among the daffodils,
That there in France are fields unflowered yet,
And murderous May-days on the unlovely hills—
Let them go walking where the land is fair
And watch the breaking of a morn in May,