Gulls to their home on the aged rock
Wheeling athwart the spray,
Thrill of the wind from the isles of Ind
In the heart of the dying day.

Dreams in the depths of the solemn pines
Ancient before our birth,
Hearing the speech of the plains that reach
To the ends of the happy earth.

Out of the years that have passed away
Out of the days to be,
Night brings the pang of the salt air's tang
And the call of the West to me.