Classic Poem

In a winter's dream, on Gamélyn moor,
I found the lost grave of the Lord Glyndwr.

Three shadows I followed against the moon,
That marched while the grey reeds whistled the tune.

Three swordsmen they were, out of Harry's wars,
That made a Welsh song of their Norman scars.

But they sang no longer of Agincourt,
When they came to a grave; for there lay Glyndwr.

Said the one: ‘My sword, th' art rust, my dear:
I but brought thee home to break thee here!’

And the second: ‘Ay, here is the narrow home,
To which our tired hearts are come!’

Said the third: ‘We are all that's left, Glyndwr,
To guard thee now on Gamélyn moor!’

Straightway I saw the dead forth-stand,
His good sword bright in his right hand.

And the marish reeds, with a rustling sound,
To a thousand grey swordsmen were turned around.

Oh, the moon did shake in the south to see
The dead Lord stand with his soldiery.

But the brighter the sword that he held before,
Turned the grave's dark gate to a radiant door.

Therein the thousand, before their Lord,
Marched at the summons of his bright sword.

Then the door fell to, the blood left my brain:
And the grave of Glyndwr I lost again.

But still his sword bright before me shone,
O'er Gamélyn moor, as I crossed alone.

And still it shines,—a silver flame,
Across the dark night of the Norman shame.

Oh, bright it shines, and shall brighter gleam,
For all that believe in the Cymraec dream.