LII. Far
in a western brookland
(from A Shropshire Lad)
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, marveling 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.
