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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: 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.

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