LII
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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