Poem of the week – Home Thoughts Abroad by Robert Browning

When Robert Browning published his long narrative poem, The Ring and the Book, in 1868, some contemporary critics deemed it “the best thing in english poetry since Shakespeare”. Alongside Lord Alfred Tennyson, Browning is widely recognised today as the greatest poet of the Victorian era. His expressive and innovative output distinguished him from most of his accomplished peers, including his gifted and celebrated wife, Elisabeth Barrett.

However, his early poetry did not achieve any significant acclaim. The book-long poem, Sordello, was characteristically obscure, compelling one Victorian reader to comment that after having read the work, she was unsure whether Sordello was “a person, a city or a book”. Despite issues regarding his inclination towards intricacy, difficulty, and obscurity, Browning’s shorter lyrical works still resonate with readers.

This week’s poem is perhaps his best known. Written in 1845, during a trip to northern Italy, Home Thoughts Abroad is a highly sentimental song of profound yearning for the English countryside. As we ruminate on the prospects of holidaying at home this year, perhaps Browning’s homesickness will engender a little gratitude for our current circumstances. We hope you enjoy this week’s poem as much as we did. 

Home Thoughts Abroad by Robert Browning

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!