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: no more remembered 
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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