The sun's on the pavement, 
  The current comes and goes, 
And the grey streets of London 
  They blossom like the rose. 

Crowned with the spring sun, 
  Vistas fair and free; 
What joy that waits not? 
  What that may not be? 

The blue-bells may beckon, 
  The cuckoo call -- and yet --
The grey streets of London 
  I never may forget. 

O fair shines the gold moon 
  On blossom-clustered eaves. 
But bright blinks the gas-lamp 
  Between the linden-leaves. 

And the green country meadows 
  Are fresh and fine to see, 
But the grey streets of London 
  They're all the world to me.