Translations into English Verse from the Poems of Davyth ap Gwilym

Earth has its summer flow’rs That bloom and pass away— The sea is track’d with showers Of light and snowy spray; But neither flower nor foam can vie With the bright hues of yonder sky! Those clouds how beautiful they are! Those rovers of the blast! That in fantastic wreaths afar O’er rock and mountain cast, Seem like the tresses of the maid That—(as she list’ning hung O’er the lov’d harp her minstrel play’d, The praise he oft had sung)— Fell blending with the murm’ring strings— Ah, me! in bright meanderings! Alas for this dull nether earth! Not e’en its elves can range In such an ecstasy of mirth, Of glamourie and change, As those wild elves in azure tent— Those fairies of the firmament! Their only task by night or day On yonder arch serene, To mock the pomp and pride that play O’er this sublimer scene! Swords, cities, thrones, the wealth of Ind— All rise and vanish with the wind! And now they seem an angel stair Of gossamer—unfurl’d The vexed and wounded soul to bear From this unquiet world! And now, in storm and darkness driv’n, They heave the thunderbolt of heav’n! Oh! could the poet choose a vest For her who has his heart, He would not glean from ocean’s crest, Nor yet the hues impart, That spread in glory and in mirth, In summer o’er the laughing earth! No! rather would he wildly climb To steal their mantle hoar, From yon fair stars that shine sublime On heav’n’s eternal shore! Nought but the robes of heav’n above Are worthy of the poet’s love!