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.