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Wales PoetryTo The Nightingaleriver of that name was born at Mold, in Flintshire, in the... The Grove Of Broom The girl of nobler loveliness Than countess decked in go... The Lament Op Llywarch Hen The bright hours return, and the blue sky is ringing ... By The Rev Rees Prichard, Ma ... The Faithful Maiden At the dawning of day on a morning in May, When the bi... The Ewe So artless art thou, gentle ewe! Thy aspect kindles... My Native Land My soul is sad, my spirit fails, And sickness in my he... Woman Gentle Woman! thou most perfect Work of the Divine Arc... Roderic's Lament Farewell every mountain To memory dear, Each streamlet... Dafydd Ap Gwilym's Address To Morfydd After She Married His Rival Too long I've loved the fickle maid, My love is turned to ... The Legend Of Trwst Llywelyn Once upon a time, Llywelyn was returning from a great battl... The Banks Of The Dee One morning in May, when soft breezes were blowing O'er... The Fairy's Song "Heavens defend me from that Welsh fairy!"--SHAKSPEARE. ... Childe Harold "Oh Gwynedd, fast thy star declineth, Thy name is gone, t... The Holly Grove Sweet holly grove, that soarest A woodland fort, an armed ... Tribanau Serjeant Parry, the eminent barrister) says: "The followin... Walter Sele O'er Walter's bed no foot shall tread, Nor step unhallo... The Song Of The Fisherman's Wife Restless wave! be still and quiet, Do not heed the win... The Sick Man's Dream Dans le solitaire bourgade, Revant a ses maux triste... Song Of The Foster-son, Love I got a foster-son, whose name was Love, From one endu... |
May And NovemberCategory: The Sentimental. Sweet May, ever welcome! the palace of leaves Thy hand for thy wild band of choristers weaves; Proud knight, that subduest with glory and power, Each glen into verdure, to joy every bower; That makest the wilderness laugh and rejoice, In the chains of thy love, in thy cuckoo's shrill voice; That fillest the heart of the lover with glee, And bringest my Morfydd's dear image to me. Alas! that dark Winter thy mansions should blight, With his chill mottled show'rs, and his flickering light, His moon that gleams wanly through snows falling fast, His pale mist that floats on the wings of the blast: With the voice of each river more fearfully loud-- Every torrent all foam, and the heaven all cloud! Alas! that stern Winter has power to divide Each lover from hope--from the poet his bride. Next: The Cuckoo's Tale Previous: The Swan
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