(After Dafydd ab Gwilym)
Memories fierce like arrows pierce;
Alone I waste and languish,
And make my cry to God on high
To ease me of mine anguish.
If heroic was my youth,
In truth its powers are over;
With brain dead and force sped,
Love sets at naught the lover!
The Muse from off my lips is thrust,
'Tis long since song has cheered me;
Gone is Ivor, counsellor just,
And Nest, whose grace upreared me!
Morfydd, all my world and more,
Lies low in churchyard gravel;
While beneath the burthen frore
Of age alone I travel.
Mute, mute my song's salute,
When summer's beauties thicken;
Cuckoo, nightingale, no art
Of yours my heart can quicken!
Morfydd, not thy haunting kiss
Or voice of bliss can save me
From the spear of age whose chill
Has quenched the thrill love gave me.
My ripe grain of heart and brain
The sod sadly streweth;
Its empty chaff with mocking laugh
The wind of death pursueth!
Dig my grave! O, dig it deep
To hide my sleeping body,
So but Christ my spirit keep,
Amen! ab Gwilym's ready!