Anthony Hopkins

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.