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... The Personalist - Seite 92 herausgegeben von - 1922 Vollansicht -
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