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| I had this dream when I was little, so I'm not changing the date down there at the bottom cuz I can't remember what it was. I'll just change the year. It's weird how vivid this one still is for me. I was sitting in a clear-plastic play-tent in my li... Read more of Seen the movie Child's Play? at My Dreams.ca | Informational Privacy |
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Wales PoetryThe Bard's Long-tried Affection For MorfyddAll my lifetime I have been Bard to Morfydd, "golden m... Pennillion Cymry, and was much practised in the houses of the Welsh g... Farewell To Wales The voice of thy streams in my spirit I bear; Farewell; ... The Flowers Of Spring beautiful stanzas, from which the following translation ... The Banks Of The Dee One morning in May, when soft breezes were blowing O'er... To The Lark "Sentinel of the morning light! Reveller of the... The Lord Of Clas The Lord of Clas to his hunting is gone, Over plain and... An Ode On The Death Of Hoel of the sixth century. He was himself a soldier, and d... May And November Sweet May, ever welcome! the palace of leaves Thy hand for... The Sick Man's Dream Dans le solitaire bourgade, Revant a ses maux triste... An Ode To The Thunder his bardic name of Dafydd Ionawr, was born in the year 1... The Swan Thou swan, upon the waters bright, In lime-hued vest, like... The Battle Of Gwenystrad contemporary of Aneurin in the sixth century. He appe... Short Is The Life Of Man Man's life, like any weaver's shuttle, flies, Or, like a t... The Lily And The Rose Once I saw two flowers blossom In a garden 'neath the h... The Holly Grove Sweet holly grove, that soarest A woodland fort, an armed ... 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... To The Nightingale river of that name was born at Mold, in Flintshire, in the... The Poor Man's Grave 'Neath the yew tree's gloomy branches, Rears a mound ... |
My Father-landCategory: The Patriotic. Land of the Cymry! thou art still, In rock and valley, stream and hill, As wild and grand; As thou hast been in days of yore, As thou hast ever been before, As thou shalt be for evermore, My Father-land! Where are the bards, like thine, who've sung The warrior's praise? the harp hath strung, With mighty hand? Made chords of magic sound arise, That flung their echoes through the skies, And gained the fame that never dies, My Father-land? And where are warriors like thine own, Who in the battle's front have shown So firm a stand? Who fought against the Romans' skill, "The conquerors of the world," until They found thou wert "invincible," My Father-land? And where are hills like thine, or where Are vales so sweet, or scenes so fair, Such praise command? There towering Snowdon, first in height, Or Cader Idris, dreary sight, And lonely Clwyd? Oh! how bright, My Father-land! Oh! how I love thee, though I mourn That cold neglect should on thee turn, Thy name to brand; And oft the scalding tear will start Raining its dew-drops from the heart, To think how far we are apart, My Father-land. And when my days are almost done, And, faltering on, I've nearly run Life's dreary sand; Still, still my fainting breath shall be Bestowed upon thy memory, My soul shall wing its way to thee, My Father-land! Next: My Native Land Previous: Walter Sele
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