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.