Wanderlied

O, WEST of all the westward roads that woo ye to their winding,
O, south of all the southward ways that call ye to the sea,
There's a little lonely garden that would pay ye for the finding,
With a fairy-ring within it and an old thorn tree.

O, there upon the brink of morn the thrushes would be calling,
And the little lilting linnets, sure they'd wake me from the dead;
With the lime trees all in blossom and the soft leaf-shadows falling,
O, there I'd have a place at last to lay my head.

O, would I had a swallow's wings, for then I'd fly and find it;
O, would I had a swallow's heart, for then I'd love to roam !
With an orchard on the hillside and an old, old man to mind it,
O, there I'd lift my lodge at last and make my home.

O, there I'd see the tide come in along the whispering reaches,
O, there I'd lie and watch the sails go shining to the west.
And where the fir-wood follows on the wide unswerving beaches,
It's there I'd lay me down at last and take my rest.