AS WE REST FOR A WHILE HIGH ON THE HILLS, THE

WARM WESTERLY BREEZE REFRESHES US.

IT'S A WARM WIND, THE WEST WIND, FULL OF BIRD'S CRIES;

NEVER FEEL THE WEST WIND BUT TEARS ARE IN MY EYES;

OR IT COMES FROM THE WESTLANDS, THE OLD BROWN HILLS,

AND APRIL'S IN THE WEST WIND, AND DAFFODILS.

IT'S A FINE LAND, THE WESTLAND, FOR HEARTS AS TIRED AS MINE,

APPLE-ORCHARDS BLOSSOM THERE, AND 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 FROM THE NEST.

IT'S THE WHITE ROAD WESTWARDS IS THE ROAD I EVER TREAD

TO THE GREEN GRASS, THE COOL GRASS, THE REST FOR HEART AND HEAD,

THE VIOLETS AND BROWN BROOKS AND THE THRUSHES SONG

ON THE FINE LAND, THE WESTLAND, THE LAND WHERE I BELONG.