Anthony Hopkins

I read poems and I get kind of, yeah, I get moved by them.

And I don't know why.

I think it's to do with my age and how poetry digs really deep inside us, you know, beyond our understanding.

Let me just find that.

Have I got a minute?

Yep.

Hold on a second.

Ah, well, yes.

It's a warm wind, the west wind, full of birds' cries.

I never hear the west wind, but tears are in my eyes.

for it comes from the Westlands, the old brown hills, and Aprils in the Westwind, and daffodils.

It's a fine land, the Westland, for hearts as tired as mine.

Apple orchards blossom there, the air's like wine.

There is cool green grass there, where men may lie at rest, and the thrushes are in song there, fluting in the nest.

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.