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Wales Poetry

The Hall Of Cynddylan
The Hall of Cynddylan is gloomy to-night, I weep, for th...

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

The Immovable Covenant
the Welsh of Mr. H. Hughes, was a Minister in the Baptist ...

My Native Land
My soul is sad, my spirit fails, And sickness in my he...

To May
the following and several other poems in this collection. ...

Old Morgan And His Wife
Hus.--Jane, tell me have you fed the pigs, Their cry is ...

The Faithful Maiden
At the dawning of day on a morning in May, When the bi...

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

An Ode To The Thunder
his bardic name of Dafydd Ionawr, was born in the year 1...

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

Song To Arvon
by the Rev. Evan Evans, a Clergyman of the Church of Eng...

To The Daisy
Oh, flower meek and modest That blooms of all the soonest,...

Gentle Woman! thou most perfect Work of the Divine Arc...

Childe Harold
"Oh Gwynedd, fast thy star declineth, Thy name is gone, t...

Serjeant Parry, the eminent barrister) says: "The followin...

Under The Orchard Tree
Under the deep-laden boughs of the orchard Walks a maid...

Cymry, and was much practised in the houses of the Welsh g...

Llywarch Hen's Lament On Cynddylan
Taliesin in the sixth century. He was engaged at the batt...

The Monarchy Of Britain
Sons of the Fair Isle! forget not the time, Ere spoilers h...

The Rose Of Llan Meilen
Sweet Rose of Llan Meilen! you bid me forget That ever i...

May And November

Category: 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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