Anthony Hopkins

Will you not come home, brother?

You have been long away.

It's April and blossom time, and white is the May, and bright is the sun, brother, and warm is the rain.

Will you not come home, brother?

Home to us again?

The young corn is green, brother, where the rabbits run, its blue sky and white clouds and warm rain and sun.

It's song to a man's soul, brother, fire to man's brain, to hear the wild bees and see the merry spring again.

Larks are singing in the west, brother, above the green wheat.

So will you not come home, brother, and rest your tired feet?

I've a balm for bruised hearts, brother, sleep for aching eyes, says the warm wind, the west wind, full of birds' cries.

It's the white road westward is the road I must tread to the green grass, the cool grass, the rest for heart and head, to the violets and the warm hearts and the thrush's song in the fine land, the west land, the land where I belong.