A Shropshire Lad 52: Far in a western brookland 

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: long since forgotten
   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.