Classic Poem

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!