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Wales Poetry

The Bard's Long-tried Affection For Morfydd
All my lifetime I have been Bard to Morfydd, "golden m...

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...

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

Short Is The Life Of Man
Man's life, like any weaver's shuttle, flies, Or, like a t...

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

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

Glan Geirionydd
. One time upon a summer day I saunter'd on the shor...

The Poor Man's Grave
'Neath the yew tree's gloomy branches, Rears a mound ...

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

An Address To The Summer
of Llanbadarn Fawr, Cardiganshire, and was born about ...

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

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

The Cuckoo's Tale
Hail, bird of sweet melody, heav'n is thy home; With the...

My Father-land
Land of the Cymry! thou art still, In rock and valley, str...

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

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

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

The Fairy's Song
"Heavens defend me from that Welsh fairy!"--SHAKSPEARE. ...

From The Hymns Of The Rev William Williams, Pantycelyn
he inherited from his ancestors, was born in the parish of...



The Flowers Of Spring






Category: The Beautiful.

beautiful stanzas, from which the following translation is made, was an
eloquent minister of the Baptist Church in Wales, and died on the 20th
day of January, 1873, at the age of 54 years, at Beaufort, in
Monmouthshire, leaving a widow and seven children to mourn their great
loss. He was also an eminent poet, and one of his poems obtained the
chair prize at a Royal Eisteddfod. It may be remarked that the lamented
poet on his death bed (in answer to an application from the editor)
desired his wife to inform him that he was welcome to publish the
translations of his poems which appear in this collection.]

Oh, pleasant spring-time flowers
That now display their bloom,
The primrose pale, and cowslip,
Which nature's face illume;
The winter bleak appears
When you bedeck the land,
Like age bent down by years,
With a posy in its hand.

Oh, dulcet spring-time flowers
Sweet honey you contain,
And soon the swarming beehive
Your treasure will retain;
The busy bee's low humming
Is heard among your leaves,
Like sound of distant hymning,
Or reaper 'mid the sheaves.

Oh, balmy spring-time flowers,
The crocus bright and rose,
The lily sweet and tulip,
Which bloom within the close:
Anoint the passing breezes
Which sigh along the vale,
And with your dulcet posies
Perfume the evening gale.

Oh, wild-grown spring-time flowers
That grow beside the brook,
How happy once to ramble
Beneath your smiling look,
And of you form gay garlands
To deck the docile lamb,
In wreaths of colour'd neck-bands,
Beside its loving dam.

Oh, pretty spring-time flowers
None look so blithe and gay,
While dancing in the breezes
Upon the lap of May,
Your fragrant petals open
Beneath the balmy dew,
You're nature's rich heave-offering
On winter's grave anew.

Oh, wondrous spring-time flowers
Tho' death stalk all around,
Another spring will quicken
Your bloom upon the ground,
Speak hopeful, as you ripen,
Of yet another spring,
Where flowers never deaden
And seasons have no wing.





Next: To May

Previous: To The Nightingale



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