A Shropshire Lad 52: Far in a western brookland

Far in a western brookland

   That bred me long ago

The poplars stand and tremble

   By pools I used to know.

There, in the windless night-time,

   The wanderer, marvelling why,

Halts on the bridge to hearken

   How soft the poplars sigh.

He hears: long since forgotten

   In fields where I was known,

Here I lie down in London

   And turn to rest alone.

There, by the starlit fences,

   The wanderer halts and hears

My soul that lingers sighing

   About the glimmering weirs.