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.
(A. E. Housman)
More Poetry from A. E. Housman:
- LXII: Terence, This is Stupid Stuff (A E Housman Poems)
- IX: The Chestnut Casts His Flambeaux and the Flowers (A E Housman Poems)
- XIII: The Deserter (A E Housman Poems)
- Diffugere Nives (A E Housman Poems)
- I:1887 (A E Housman Poems)
- IX: On Moonlit Heath and Lonesome Bank (A E Housman Poems)