There is a tree on a hill of yellow gorse,
Where skylarks sing, above the wild grey sea,
That I left long ago when the seed was in the ground,
And I thought if I had wings I could be free.
They said, you cannot live on a hill of yellow gorse,
That the skylarks sing the same in any field,
That life is lived in lights and the glitter of the night,
And silence kills the spirit if you yield.
But I hear it in my heart above the traffic’s roar,
The lapping of the waves upon the strand.
The wind sighs in a tree on a hill of yellow gorse,
And the bones sing in the deep depths of the land.
Stronger than the ties of a lifetime wrought of habit,
Than the cords I wove of silver and of gold,
Is the fluttering of feathers and the wind’s voice in the rushes,
Calling back my heart before I grow too old.