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Wales Poetry

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

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

The Grove Of Broom
The girl of nobler loveliness Than countess decked in go...

Gwilym Glyn And Ruth Of Dyffryn
In the depth of yonder valley, Where the fields are bright...

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

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

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

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

Dafydd Ap Gwilym's Invocation To The Summer To Visit Glamorganshire,
Where he spent many happy years at the hospitable mansion o...

A Bridal Song
Wilt thou not waken, bride of May, While the flowers are...

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

The Death Of Owain
Lo! the youth, in mind a man, Daring in the battle's v...

The Eisteddfod,
Strike the harp: awake the lay! Let Cambria's voice be h...

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

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

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

To The Nightingale
river of that name was born at Mold, in Flintshire, in the...

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

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

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

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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