"It's a warm wind, the west wind..." said Mr Masefield.
Any excuse to post a great poem, of course!
I went up this evening near to Longstone Edge, where my sister wanted me to look at some land. I haven't been out at all today, except to get in some washing, as I've been busy with paperwork.
I got out of the car. I had on a shirt, pullover and jacket, but no hat or scarf with me as after all it's 23rd May and almost summer. I'm not a wimp I don't think, but after 100m or so there was absolutely no way that I could carry on. My hands, face and ears were frozen with cold and the wind was due west and like a knife: by the time I got back to the car I had earache. The temp display showed 3.5 degrees C.
On the way back to my own village, I saw a neighbour walking her dog, and stopped as you do to say hello. Of course, we talked about the weather. It turned out that she'd been over the tops to Sheffield earlier and it had been snowing.
I can't remember, in my 40 odd years, a spring as bitter and sunless as this one. Rain you expect, but surely not temperatures getting on for zero.
Can any of our older friends recall such a cold spring, I wondered?
++++++++++
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 west lands, the old brown hills.
And April's in the west wind, and daffodils.
It's a fine land, the west land, 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.
"Will ye not come home brother? ye 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 ye not come home, brother, home to us again?
"The young corn is green, brother, where the rabbits run.
It's blue sky, and white clouds, and warm rain and sun.
It's song to a man's soul, brother, fire to a 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 ye 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 westwards is the road I must tread
To the green grass, the cool grass, and rest for heart and head,
To the violets, and the warm hearts, and the thrushes' song,
In the fine land, the west land, the land where I belong
Any excuse to post a great poem, of course!
I went up this evening near to Longstone Edge, where my sister wanted me to look at some land. I haven't been out at all today, except to get in some washing, as I've been busy with paperwork.
I got out of the car. I had on a shirt, pullover and jacket, but no hat or scarf with me as after all it's 23rd May and almost summer. I'm not a wimp I don't think, but after 100m or so there was absolutely no way that I could carry on. My hands, face and ears were frozen with cold and the wind was due west and like a knife: by the time I got back to the car I had earache. The temp display showed 3.5 degrees C.
On the way back to my own village, I saw a neighbour walking her dog, and stopped as you do to say hello. Of course, we talked about the weather. It turned out that she'd been over the tops to Sheffield earlier and it had been snowing.
I can't remember, in my 40 odd years, a spring as bitter and sunless as this one. Rain you expect, but surely not temperatures getting on for zero.
Can any of our older friends recall such a cold spring, I wondered?
++++++++++
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 west lands, the old brown hills.
And April's in the west wind, and daffodils.
It's a fine land, the west land, 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.
"Will ye not come home brother? ye 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 ye not come home, brother, home to us again?
"The young corn is green, brother, where the rabbits run.
It's blue sky, and white clouds, and warm rain and sun.
It's song to a man's soul, brother, fire to a 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 ye 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 westwards is the road I must tread
To the green grass, the cool grass, and rest for heart and head,
To the violets, and the warm hearts, and the thrushes' song,
In the fine land, the west land, the land where I belong