Two long, full years have passed since I have smelt Sweet London in this happy month of May! Last year relentless War bore me away To Imbros Isle, where six sad months I dwelt Beneath a burning sun—nor ever felt One breath of gentle Spring blow o'er the bay Between whose sun-dried hills so long I lay A restless captive. Now has Fortune dealt More kindly with me: once again I know The drowsy languor of the afternoons: The soft white clouds: the may-tree's whiter snow: The star-bound evenings, and the ivory moons. My heart, dear God! leaps up till it is pain With thanks to Thee that I am here again. London.