Thus did Abraham father
  Of faith with joy possess Thee. 
  Bird and bee-song bless Thee,
    Among the lilies and roses! 
  All the old, all the young
  Laud thee with joyful tongue,
  As Thy praise was once sung
    By Aaron and Moses. 
  Male and female,
  The days that are seven,
  The stars of heaven,
  The air and the ether,
  Every book and fair letter;
  Fish in waters fair-flowing,
  And song and deed glowing! 
  Grey sand and green sward
  Make your blessing’s award! 
  And all such as with good
  Have satisfied stood! 
  While my own mouth shall bless Thee
  And my Saviour confess Thee. 
    Hail, glorious Lord!

MY BURIAL

(After Dafydd ab Gwilym, the most famous Welsh lyrical poet, 1340-1400)

  When I die, O, bury me
    Within the free young wild wood;
  Little birches, o’er me bent,
    Lamenting as my child would! 
  Let my surplice-shroud be spun
    Of sparkling summer clover;
  While the great and stately treen
    Their rich rood-screen hang over! 
  For my bier-cloth blossomed may
    Outlay on eight green willows! 
  Sea-gulls white to bear my pall
    Take flight from all the billows. 
  Summer’s cloister be my church
    Of soft leaf-searching whispers,
  From whose mossed bench the nightingale
    To all the vale chants vespers! 
  Mellow-toned, the brake amid,
    My organ hid be cuckoo! 
  Paters, seemly hours and psalm
    Bird voices calm re-echo! 
  Mystic masses, sweet addresses,
    Blackbird, be thou offering;
  Till God His Bard to Paradise
    Uplift from sighs and suffering.

THE LAST CYWYDD

(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!