THE wind blows down the dusty street; And through my soul that grieves -- It brings a sudden odour sweet: A scent of poplar leaves. O leaves that herald in the spring, O freshness young and pure, Into my weary soul you bring The vigour to endure. The wood is near, but out of sight, Where all the poplars grow; Straight up and tall and silver white, They quiver in a row. My love is out of sight, but near; And through my soul that grieves A sudden memory wafts her here As fresh as poplar leaves. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...JOHN BARLEYCORN by ROBERT BURNS LONDON VOLUNTARIES: 3. SCHERZANDO by WILLIAM ERNEST HENLEY THE SWAMP FOX by WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS LINES WRITTEN IN A CITY COMPOSING-ROOM by FRANKLIN PIERCE ADAMS RECOLLECTION by ANNE REEVE ALDRICH |