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. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...HOMAGE TO SEXTUS PROPERTIUS: 11 by EZRA POUND COUNTRY SUMMER by LEONIE ADAMS HOMAGE TO THE BRITISH MUSEUM by WILLIAM EMPSON THE CREATION (A NEGRO SERMON) by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON THE HOUSE OF LIFE: 26. MID-RAPTURE by DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI A PRAYER FOR A VERY NEW ANGEL by VIOLET ALLEYN STOREY ODE ON THE DEATH OF THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON by ALFRED TENNYSON |