|While working on a sermon the pastor heard a knock at his office door. "Come in," he invited. A sad-looking man in threadbare clothes came in, pulling a large pig on a rope. "Can I talk to you for a minute?" asked the... Read more of Quite In Church at Free Jokes.ca|| Informational|
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Wales PoetryOde To Cambria
Cambria, I love thy genius bold; Thy dreadful rites, and...
Farewell To Wales
The voice of thy streams in my spirit I bear; Farewell; ...
The Song Of The Fisherman's Wife
Restless wave! be still and quiet, Do not heed the win...
Twenty Third Psalm
My shepherd is the Lord above, Who ne'er will suffer me to...
The Mother To Her Child After Its Father's Death
My gentle child, thou dost not know Why still on thee ...
The Death Of Owain
Lo! the youth, in mind a man, Daring in the battle's v...
Translations From Miscellaneous Welsh Hymns
Had I but the wings of a dove, To regions afar I'd repa...
So artless art thou, gentle ewe! Thy aspect kindles...
To The Lark
"Sentinel of the morning light! Reveller of the...
The Praise And Commendation Of A Good Woman
As a wise child excells the sceptr'd fool Who of conceit a...
Gentle Woman! thou most perfect Work of the Divine Arc...
To The Nightingale
river of that name was born at Mold, in Flintshire, in the...
My Native Land
My soul is sad, my spirit fails, And sickness in my he...
The Poor Man's Grave
'Neath the yew tree's gloomy branches, Rears a mound ...
Farewell every mountain To memory dear, Each streamlet...
Cymry, and was much practised in the houses of the Welsh g...
Song Of The Foster-son, Love
I got a foster-son, whose name was Love, From one endu...
Sad Died The Maiden
Sad died the Maiden! and heaven only knew The anguish s...
The Mountain Galloway
My tried and trusty mountain steed, Of Aberteivi's hardy...
The Bard's Long-tried Affection For Morfydd
All my lifetime I have been Bard to Morfydd, "golden m...
The Grove Of Broom
Category: The Sentimental.
The girl of nobler loveliness
Than countess decked in golden dress,
No longer dares to give her plight
To meet the bard at dawn or night!
To the blythe moon he may not bear
The maid, whose cheeks the daylight wear--
She fears to answer to his call
At midnight, underneath yon wall--
Nor can he find a birchen bower
To screen her in the morning hour;
And thus the summer days are fleeting
Away, without the lovers meeting!
But stay! my eyes a bower behold,
Where maid and poet yet may meet,
Its branches are arrayed in gold,
Its boughs the sight in winter greet
With hues as bright, with leaves as green,
As summer scatters o'er the scene.
(To lure the maiden) from that brake,
For her a vesture I will make,
Bright as the ship of glass of yore,
That Merddin o'er the ocean bore;
O'er Dyfed's hills there was a veil
In ancient days--(so runs the tale);
And such a canopy to me
This court, among the woods, shall be;
Where she, my heart adores, shall reign,
The princess of the fair domain.
To her, and to her poet's eyes,
This arbour seems a paradise;
Its every branch is deftly strung
With twigs and foliage lithe and young,
And when May comes upon the trees
To paint her verdant liveries,
Gold on each threadlike sprig will glow,
To honour her who reigns below.
Green is that arbour to behold,
And on its withes thick showers of gold!
Joy to the poet and the maid,
Whose paradise is yonder shade!
Oh! flowers of noblest splendour, these
Are summer's frost-work on the trees!
A field the lovers now possess,
With saffron o'er its verdure roll'd,
A house of passing loveliness,
A fabric of Arabia's gold--
Bright golden tissue, glorious tent,
Of him who rules the firmament,
With roof of various colours blent!
An angel, 'mid the woods of May,
Embroidered it with radiance gay--
That gossamer with gold bedight--
Those fires of God--those gems of light!
'Tis sweet those magic bowers to find,
With the fair vineyards intertwined;
Amid the wood their jewels rise,
Like gleams of starlight o'er the skies--
Like golden bullion, glorious prize!
How sweet the flowers which deck that floor,
In one unbroken glory blended--
Those glittering branches hovering o'er--
Veil by an angel's hand extended.
Oh! if my love will come, her bard
Will, with his case, her footsteps guard,
There, where no stranger dares to pry,
Beneath yon Broom's green canopy!
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