We find this English poet in France, in Syria, in Greece, in Spain, but not in England.

We find Rome, Florence, Venice, Mantua, Verona, and forgotten towns among the Apennines painted with happy love in verse, but not an English town nor an English village.

The flowers, the hills, the ways of the streams, the talk of the woods, the doings of the sea and the clouds in tempest and in peace, the aspects of the sky at noon, at sunrise and sunset, are all foreign, not English.

The one little poem which is of English landscape is written by him in Italy (in a momentary weariness with his daily adoration), and under a green impulse.

Delightful as it is, he would not have remained faithful to it for a day.