by A. E. Housman
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.

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