Far in a western brookland
Far in a western brooklandThat bred me long agoThe poplars stand and trembleBy pools I used to know.
There, in the windless night-time,The wanderer, marvelling why,Halts on the bridge to hearkenHow soft the poplars sigh.
He hears: long since forgottenIn fields where I was known,Here I lie down in LondonAnd turn to rest alone.
There, by the starlit fences,The wanderer halts and hearsMy soul that lingers sighingAbout the glimmering weirs.
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