Hope Springs Eternal
This glorious April, the finest in my memory, is drawing to a close. I am, as will be obvious, no expert on 19th and 20th century English poetry but somewhere in the remotest dusty recesses of my memory banks are snippets of verse about the beauties of England in the spring. Were they by Rupert Brooke? Or perhaps by homesick, and long forgotten, colonial civil servants or army officers stuck in the sweatier parts of…