What is the RHYME SCHEME?
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 airs’ like wine.
There is cool green grass there where men may lie at rest;
And the thrushes are in song there, fluting from their nest…
