What ails my senses thus to cheat?
  What is it ails the place, 
That all the people in the street
  Should wear one woman's face?
 
The London trees are dusty-brown 
   Beneath the summer sky; 
My love, she dwells in London town, 
   Nor leaves it in July.
   
O various and intricate maze,
  Wide waste of square and street; 
Where, missing through unnumbered days,
  We twain at last may meet! 
 
And who cries out on crowd and mart? 
   Who prates of stream and sea?
  The summer in the city's heart— 
   That is enough for me.