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Kennst du das Land, wo die Zitronen blühn?

Well, yes, I do, actually

For that is where I am.

And it is fine, all very fine.

So fine you cannot fault it.

The medlars come in May

With the bees,

And the vines are heavier each day with grapes

For the rich red wine of autumn.

The bougainvillea, as every year,

Cloaks in purple the stones of the garden wall

Where the lizards hide and scurry.

The flowers of the hibiscus blow their red trumpets for a day

Then fall to be replaced by more tomorrow.

And all of this is fine,

All very fine.

But it is far away

From the fitful sun of a June day

On a hill in Somerset,

Where the oak and the old crab apple tree

Grow side by side,

And together look over the channel

To the blue hills of Wales,

Waiting for the gentle rain

Which Portia said was mercy.