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Wales Poetry

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...

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

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

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

The World And The Sea: A Comparison
Like the world and its dread changes Is the ocean when it ...

By The Rev Rees Prichard, Ma
...

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

The Dawn
Streaking the mantle of deep night The rays of light ...

Song Of The Foster-son, Love
I got a foster-son, whose name was Love, From one endu...

Translations From Miscellaneous Welsh Hymns
Had I but the wings of a dove, To regions afar I'd repa...

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

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

The Swan
Thou swan, upon the waters bright, In lime-hued vest, like...

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

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

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

Gwilym Glyn And Ruth Of Dyffryn
In the depth of yonder valley, Where the fields are bright...

Walter Sele
O'er Walter's bed no foot shall tread, Nor step unhallo...

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



The Bard's Long-tried Affection For Morfydd






Category: The Sentimental.

All my lifetime I have been
Bard to Morfydd, "golden mien!"
I have loved beyond belief,
Many a day to love and grief
For her sake have been a prey,
Who has on the moon's array!
Pledged my truth from youth will now
To the girl of glossy brow.
Oh, the light her features wear,
Like the tortured torrent's glare!
Oft by love bewildered quite,
Have my aching feet all night
Stag-like tracked the forest shade
For the foam-complexioned maid,
Whom with passion firm and gay
I adored 'mid leaves of May!
'Mid a thousand I could tell
One elastic footstep well!
I could speak to one sweet maid--
(Graceful figure!)--by her shade.
I could recognize till death,
One sweet maiden by her breath!
From the nightingale could learn
Where she tarries to discern;
There his noblest music swells
Through the portals of the dells!

When I am from her away,
I have neither laugh nor lay!
Neither soul nor sense is left,
I am half of mind bereft;
When she comes, with grief I part,
And am altogether heart!
Songs inspired, like flowing wine,
Rush into this mind of mine;
Sense enough again comes back
To direct me in my track!
Not one hour shall I be gay,
Whilst my Morfydd is away!





Next: The Grove Of Broom

Previous: The Poor Man's Grave



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