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.

 ~ Alfred E. Housman

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