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| These make excellent greens for winter and spring use. Boil hard one half hour with salt pork or corned beef, then drain and serve in a hot dish. Garnish with slices of hard boiled eggs, or the yolks of eggs quirled by pressing through a patent... Read more of Kale Greens at Home Made Cookies.ca | Informational.ca Privacy |
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Wales PoetrySad Died The MaidenSad died the Maiden! and heaven only knew The anguish s... Pennillion Cymry, and was much practised in the houses of the Welsh g... Dafydd Ap Gwilym's Invocation To The Summer To Visit Glamorganshire, Where he spent many happy years at the hospitable mansion o... Short Is The Life Of Man Man's life, like any weaver's shuttle, flies, Or, like a t... To The Spring Oh, come gentle spring, and visit the plain, Far scatte... Song To Arvon by the Rev. Evan Evans, a Clergyman of the Church of Eng... The Circling Of The Mead Horns Fill the blue horn, the blue buffalo horn: Natural is mead... The Bard's Long-tried Affection For Morfydd All my lifetime I have been Bard to Morfydd, "golden m... 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 ... To The Nightingale river of that name was born at Mold, in Flintshire, in the... The Lament Op Llywarch Hen The bright hours return, and the blue sky is ringing ... The Cuckoo's Tale Hail, bird of sweet melody, heav'n is thy home; With the... The Grove Of Broom The girl of nobler loveliness Than countess decked in go... To The Lark "Sentinel of the morning light! Reveller of the... Farewell To Wales The voice of thy streams in my spirit I bear; Farewell; ... Old Morgan And His Wife Hus.--Jane, tell me have you fed the pigs, Their cry is ... The Flowers Of Spring beautiful stanzas, from which the following translation ... May And November Sweet May, ever welcome! the palace of leaves Thy hand for... The Death Of Owain Lo! the youth, in mind a man, Daring in the battle's v... |
The Grove Of BroomCategory: 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! Next: That Had Been Converted Into A May-pole In The Town Of Llanidloes, In Montgomeryshire Previous: The Bard's Long-tried Affection For Morfydd
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