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 along.

There, by starlit fences,
   The wanderer halts and hears
My soul that lingers sighing
   About the glimmering weirs.

A.E. Housman, A Shropshire Lad
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