It is not when the seamew cries above the grey-green foam
  Or circling o'er the bracken-fields the fluttering lapwings fly,
Or when above the broom and gale the lark is in his windy home
  That thus I long, and with old longing sigh.

For I am far away now, and now have time for sighing,
  For sighing and for longing, where the grey houses stand.
In dreams I am a seamew flying, flying, flying
  To where my heart is, in my own lost land.

It is when in the crowded streets the rustling of white willows
  And tumbling of a brown hill-water obscure the noisy ways ;
Then is the ache a bitter pain ; and to hear grey-green billows,
  Or the hill-wind in a broom-sweet place.