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)