I salute the most high lord,
the most worthy one, because he's a king.
I compose a poem in the first place,
a song of praise like Merlin sang,
my skill in verse to the women who own it
(how hesitant their virtue makes them!),
the best in all the country west
of Chester gates to Porth Ysgewin.

One is a girl who must be chiefly praised,
Gwenllian, summer-weather-hued;
the second is the one in the mantle and gold collar;
my lips are far from her.

Fair Gweirfyl, my gift, my mystery, whom I never had;

I paintedrouge on my lips,
and kissed the trunk of a new birch,
even if I were a handsome man,
on my chest are no breasts likerubber balls,
from my skin rises no fragrance of finetexturedpowder,
I am a wizened man of ill fate,
ah, what a pitiable man,
in today's balmy early summer field,
in a stand of glistening trees,
I slipped on my hands sky blue gloves,
put around my waist something like acorset,
smeared on my nape something like nape powder,
thus hushed assuming a coquettishpose,
as young girls do,
I cocked my head a little,

I

The multicoloured mushroom seems
a Japanese toad's
parasol.

II

The dragon-fly strives patiently
to fasten its transparent cross
to the bare and trembling bough.

III

Ants on inert cricket crawling.
Memory
of Gulliver in Lilliput.

IV

Mingled, in the quiet evening,
chimes of angelus and bats
and swallows fly.

I met at eve the Prince of Sleep,
His was a still and lovely face,
He wandered through a valley steep,
Lovely in a lonely place.

His garb was grey of lavender,
About his brows a poppy-wreath
Burned like dim coals, and everywhere
The air was sweeter for his breath.

His twilight feet no sandals wore,
His eyes shone faint in their own flame,
Fair moths that gloomed his steps before
Seemed letters of his lovely name.

His house is in the mountain ways,
A phantom house of misty walls,
Whose golden flocks at evening graze,

I love you more than human heart can bear
More than a poet dreams or lover feels
You are the perfumed cloud from heaven sent
To rain upon me your enchanted dew;
I feel your heart, your veins flow into mine,
No gap to let the impure world creep in;
My heart confronts your heart, finding its twin,
As two cups meet in one ethereal vow;
In us when wine is made to mix with wine,
A blend of perfume, breeze, and dew combine;
My inspiration dwells within your eyes,
And swells when lip on lip instructs my art;
For us the fire rages, though unfed,

1. I love to steal awhile away From
2. I love in solitude to shed The
every cumbering care. And spend the hours of
penitential tear, And all his promi-
setting day, In humble, grateful prayer.
ses to plead, Where none but God can hear.

3. I love to think on mercies past,
And future good implore,
And all my cares and sorrows cast
On him whom I adore.

4. I love by faith to take a view
Of brighter scenes in heaven;
The prospect doth my strength renew
While here by tempests driven.

I LOVE my Love in the morning,
For she like morn is fair —
Her blushing cheek its crimson streak,
Its clouds her golden hair,
Her glance its beam so soft and kind,
Her tears its dewy showers,
And her voice the tender whispering wind
That stirs the early bowers.

I love my Love in the morning,
I love my Love at noon,
For she is bright as the lord of light,
Yet mild as Autumn's moon.
Her beauty is my bosom's sun,
Her faith my fostering shade,
And I will love my darling one
Till ever the sun shall fade.

I love all shining things —
the lovely moon,
The silver stars at night,
gold sun at noon.
A glowing rainbow in
a stormy sky,
Or bright clouds hurrying
when wind goes by.

I love the glow-worm's elf-light
in the lane,
And leaves a-shine with glistening
drops of rain,
The glinting wings of bees,
and butterflies,
My purring pussy's green
and shining eyes.

I love the street-lamps shining
through the gloom,

I LATELY lived in quiet ease,
— An' never wished to marry, O!
But when I saw my Peggy's face,
— I felt a sad quandary, O!
Though wild as ony Athol deer,
— She has trepanned me fairly, O!
Her cherry cheeks an' een sae clear
— Torment me late an' early, O!
— — O, love, love, love!
— — — Love is like a dizziness;
— — It winna let a poor body
— — — Gang about his biziness!

To tell my feats this single week
— Wad mak a daft-like diary, O!
I drave my cart out owre a dike,
— My horses in a miry, O!

I have praised many loved ones in my song,
And yet I stand
Before her shrine, to whom all things belong,
With empty hand.

Perhaps the ripening future holds a time
For things unsaid;
Not now; men do not celebrate in rhyme
Their daily bread.