Wales Poetry

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

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

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

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

The Day Of Judgment
was a native of Anglesea, and entered the Welsh Church...

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

The Vengeance Of Owain {96}
Gruffydd ab Cynan, Prince of Gwynedd, or North Wales, and ...

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

The Battle Of Gwenystrad
contemporary of Aneurin in the sixth century. He appe...

To The Lark
"Sentinel of the morning light! Reveller of the...

The Ewe
So artless art thou, gentle ewe! Thy aspect kindles...

The Lily And The Rose
Once I saw two flowers blossom In a garden 'neath the h...

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

The Mountain Galloway
My tried and trusty mountain steed, Of Aberteivi's hardy...

An Ode On The Death Of Hoel
of the sixth century. He was himself a soldier, and d...

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

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

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

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 Circling Of The Mead Horns
Fill the blue horn, the blue buffalo horn: Natural is mead...

The Fairy's Song

Category: The Beautiful.

"Heavens defend me from that Welsh fairy!"--SHAKSPEARE.

I am a wand'rer o'er earth and sea,
The trackless air has a path for me;
Ye may trace my steps on the heather green,
By the emerald ring, where my foot hath been;
Ye may hear my voice in the night wind's sigh,
Or the wood's low moan when a storm is nigh.

My task is to brighten the rainbow's hue,
To sprinkle the flowers with glit'ring dew,
To steep in crimson the evening cloud,
And wrap the hills in their misty shroud;
To track the course of a wandering star,
And marshal it back to its home afar.

I am no child of the murky night,
But a being of music, and joy, and light;
If the fair moon sleep in her bower o'er long,
I break on her rest with my mirthful song;
And when she is shining o'er hill and heath,
I dance in the revels of Gwyn ab Nudd. {65}

Few are the mortals whose favoured feet
May tread unscathed where the fairies meet;
Wo to the tuneless tongue and ear,
And the craven heart, that has throbbed with fear,
If I meet them at night, on the lonely heath,
As I haste to the banquet of Gwyn ab Nudd.

But joy to the minstrel, whose deathless song
On the breeze of the mountain is borne along,
And joy to the warrior, whose heart and hand
Are strong in the cause of his native land;
For them we are twining our fairest wreath,
They are welcome as moonlight to Gwyn ab Nudd!





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