Set is the snare, the ash clusters glow,
Ducks plash in the pools; breakers whiten below;
More strong than a hundred is the heart's hidden woe.
Long is the night; resounding the shore,
Frequent in crowds a tumultuous roar;
The evil and good disagree evermore.
Long is the night ; the hill full of cries;
O'er the tree-tops the wind whistles and sighs;
Ill nature deceives not the wit of the wise.
The greening birch saplings a-sway in the air
Shall deliver my feet from the enemy's snare;
It is ill with a youth thy heart's secrets to share.
The saplings of oak in yonder green glade
Shall loosen the snare by an enemy laid;
It is ill to unbosom thy heart to a maid.
The saplings of oak in their full summer pride
Shall loosen the snare by the enemy tied;
It is ill to a babbler thy heart to confide.
The brambles with berries of purple are dressed;
In silence the brooding thrush clings to her nest;
In silence the liar can never take rest.
Rain is without wet the fern plume;
White the sea gravel fierce the waves' spume;
There is no lamp like reason man's life to illume.
Rain is without, but the shelter is near;
Yellow the furze, the cow-parsnip is sere;
God in Heaven, how could'st Thou create cowards here!
Rain and still rain, dank these tresses of mine!
The feeble complain of the cliff's steep incline;
Wan is the main; sharp the breath of the brine.
Rain falls in a sheet; the Ocean is drenched;
By the whistling sleet the reed-tops are wrenched;
Feat after feat; but Genius lies quenched.
Llywarch Hen "Llywarch the Old" (c. 534 – c. 608) Wales
Translated by Alfred Perceval Graves
Source: Welsh poetry old and new, in English verse by Alfred Perceval Graves, Longmans, Green, and co., 1912
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