ON London stones I sometimes sigh For wider green and bluer sky; -- Too oft the trembling note is drowned In this huge city's varied sound; -- 'Pure song is country born' -- I cry. Then comes the spring, -- the months go by, The last stray swallows seaward fly; And I -- I too! -- no more am found On London stones! In vain! -- the woods, the fields deny That clearer strain I fain would try; Mine is an urban Muse, and bound By some strange law to paven ground; Abroad she pouts; -- she is not shy On London stones! |