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Wales Poetry

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

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

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

Taliesin's Prophecy
A voice from time departed, yet floats thy hills among,...

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

The Lord Of Clas
The Lord of Clas to his hunting is gone, Over plain and...

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

Roderic's Lament
Farewell every mountain To memory dear, Each streamlet...

Sad Died The Maiden
Sad died the Maiden! and heaven only knew The anguish s...

Ode To Cambria
Cambria, I love thy genius bold; Thy dreadful rites, and...

The Praise And Commendation Of A Good Woman
As a wise child excells the sceptr'd fool Who of conceit a...

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

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

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

The Shipwreck
a Welsh Congregationalist Minister, and an eminent poet....

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

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

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

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

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



The Circling Of The Mead Horns






Category: The Beautiful.

Fill the blue horn, the blue buffalo horn:
Natural is mead in the buffalo horn:
As the cuckoo in spring, as the lark in the morn,
So natural is mead in the buffalo horn.

As the cup of the flower to the bee when he sips,
Is the full cup of mead to the true Briton's lips:
From the flower-cups of summer, on field and on tree,
Our mead cups are filled by the vintager bee.

Seithenyn ap Seithyn, the generous, the bold,
Drinks the wine of the stranger from vessels of gold;
But we from the horn, the blue silver-rimmed horn,
Drink the ale and the mead in our fields that were born.

The ale-froth is white, and the mead sparkles bright;
They both smile apart, and with smiles they unite:
The mead from the flower, and the ale from the corn,
Smile, sparkle, and sing in the buffalo horn.

The horn, the blue horn, cannot stand on its tip;
Its path is right on from the hand to the lip;
Though the bowl and the wine-cup our tables adorn,
More natural the draught from the buffalo horn.

But Seithenyn ap Seithyn, the generous, the bold,
Drinks the bright-flowing wine from the far-gleaming gold,
The wine, in the bowl by his lip that is worn,
Shall be glorious as mead in the buffalo horn.

The horns circle fast, but their fountains will last,
As the stream passes ever, and never is past:
Exhausted so quickly, replenished so soon,
They wax and they wane like the horns of the moon.

Fill high the blue horn, the blue buffalo horn;
Fill high the long silver-rimmed buffalo horn:
While the roof of the hall by our chorus is torn,
Fill, fill to the brim, the deep silver-rimmed horn.





Next: Dafydd Ap Gwilym To The White Gull

Previous: The Lily And The Rose



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