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Wales Poetry

To The Nightingale
river of that name was born at Mold, in Flintshire, in the...

Farewell To Wales
The voice of thy streams in my spirit I bear; Farewell; ...

To The Spring
Oh, come gentle spring, and visit the plain, Far scatte...

The Deluge
* * * * * Whether to the east or west You go, wondr...

To The Lark
"Sentinel of the morning light! Reveller of the...

Dafydd Ap Gwilym's Invocation To The Summer To Visit Glamorganshire,
Where he spent many happy years at the hospitable mansion o...

The Farmer's Prayer
poems of the "Good Vicar Prichard of Llandovery" would be ...

The Castles Of Wales
Ye fortresses grey and gigantic I see on the hills of...

The Golden Goblet, In Imitation Of Gothe
There was a king in Mon, {62} A true lover to his grave; ...

The Withered Leaf
Dry the leaf above the stubble, Soon 'twill fall into ...

The Lily And The Rose
Once I saw two flowers blossom In a garden 'neath the h...

The Sick Man's Dream
Dans le solitaire bourgade, Revant a ses maux triste...

The Lament Op Llywarch Hen
The bright hours return, and the blue sky is ringing ...

The Legend Of Trwst Llywelyn
Once upon a time, Llywelyn was returning from a great battl...

The Rose Of The Glen
Although I've no money or treasure to give, No palace or c...

The Banks Of The Dee
One morning in May, when soft breezes were blowing O'er...

King of the mighty hills! thy crown of snow Thou reares...

Twenty Third Psalm
My shepherd is the Lord above, Who ne'er will suffer me to...

The Mother To Her Child After Its Father's Death
My gentle child, thou dost not know Why still on thee ...

The Vengeance Of Owain {96}
Gruffydd ab Cynan, Prince of Gwynedd, or North Wales, and ...

Glan Geirionydd

Category: The Sentimental.


One time upon a summer day
I saunter'd on the shore
Of swift Geirionydd's waters blue,
Where oft I walked before
In youth's bright season gone,
And spent life's happiest morn
In drawing from its crystal waves
The trout beneath the thorn,
When every thought within my breast
Was light as solar ray,
Enjoying every pastime dear
Throughout the livelong day.

The breeze would soften on the lake,
Unruffled be its deep,
And all surrounding nature be
As calm as silent sleep,
Except the raven's dismal shriek
Upon the lofty spray,
And bleat of sheep beside the bush
Where light their lambkins play,
And noise made by the busy mill
Upon the river shore,
With cuckoo's song perch'd in the ash
To show that winter's o'er.

The impressive scene would rather tend
To nurse reflection deep,
Than cast the gay and sprightly fly
Beneath the rocky steep;
'Twould fill my spirit now subdued
With sober earnest thought,
Of other days, and other things,
My youthful hands had wrought;
The tears would spring into my eyes,
My heart with heaving fill,
To think of all that I had been,
And all that I am still.

* * * * *

The sober stillness would beget
Thoughts of departed friends,
Who not long since companions were
Upon the river's bends;
And soon will come the sombre day
When I shall meet their doom,
And 'stead of fishing by the lake,
I shall be in the tomb.
Some brother bard may chance to stray
And ask for Ieuan E'an?--
"Geirionydd lake is still the same,
But here no Ieuan's seen."

Next: The Mother To Her Child After Its Father's Death

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