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Wales Poetry

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

May And November
Sweet May, ever welcome! the palace of leaves Thy hand for...

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

To May
the following and several other poems in this collection. ...

The Flowers Of Spring
beautiful stanzas, from which the following translation ...

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

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

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

Cymry, and was much practised in the houses of the Welsh g...

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

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

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

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

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

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

To The Spring
Oh, come gentle spring, and visit the plain, Far scatte...

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

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

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

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

The Golden Goblet, In Imitation Of Gothe

Category: The Beautiful.

There was a king in Mon, {62}
A true lover to his grave;
To whom in death his lady
A golden goblet gave.

When Christmas bowls were circling,
And all was joy and cheer,
He passed that goblet from him
With a kiss and with a tear.

When death he felt approaching,
To all his barons bold,
He left some fair dominion--
To none, that cup of gold.

He sate at royal banquet,
With all his lordly train,
In the castle of his fathers,
On the rock above the main.

Upstood the tottering monarch,
And drank the cup's last wine;
Then flung the holy goblet,
Deep, deep, into the brine.

He watch'd it, bubbling, sinking,
Far, far, beneath the wave;
And the light sank from his eyelid,
With the cup his lady gave.

Next: The Sick Man's Dream

Previous: The Legend Of Trwst Llywelyn

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