  THE sky above my head is fair— Not dark, as once it used to be— And joy and life are in the air, And green is every budding tree That, wind-swept, makes its bough to me; And all the world is glad and gay, Which makes me cry when this I see— “Where are the fogs of yesterday?” My heart is light and void of care— Though this year’s months are yet but three— I miss the mid-day gas-lamps’ glare, I meet the folks who used to flee To Southern France and Italy; In London now they gladly stay, In London spend their £ s. d.— Where are the fogs of yesterday? One shirt till eve I now can wear, Which once was quite a rarity, And even folks in Bedford Square And erstwhile blackest Bloomsbury, Can from their windows gaze with glee And nod to friends across the way, And Auguste says to Stephen G., “Where are the fogs of yesterday? Prince, since of them at last we’re free, And London ’scapes their cruel sway, Why need we care a single D? Where are the fogs of yesterday? |
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