THE ice froze cold, as cold as death,
Yet runs the stream below;
The very spring breathes bitter breath,
But still the flowerets blow.
Nor shall it perish from the land,
The living seed they bore,
As forth they fared, that pilgrim band,
As pilgrims went of yore.
Lead, river, down the mountain glen,
Glide ’mid the sunny slopes;
Now lose thyself, now come again,
E’en like a pilgrim’s hopes.
And careless rivulets with their peace
Smiled on the passers-by,
From many a valley, where the trees
See but their own dear sky.
So swept they on a great bright plain,
A charmèd breadth out-laid,
Where mountains rounded to the main
A charmèd circle made;
And northward couched a huge hill dream,
Which ofttimes, as it lay.
To heave and pant in sleep did seem,
Beneath the sultry day.
And leaning up against the hill,
Whose headland, purple-black,
The southern waters, as they fill,
Kiss daily, and fall back,
A simple hamlet, nowise planned,
Puts out a long arm white,
Where level sea and level sand
Scarce know each other’s right.
The mountains rule the east, but all
The west, the sea, the sea;
Save when the sun at evenfall
Disputes her sovereignty.
A kindly people held the land,
A kindly race and free;
So rest they found, that pilgrim band,
At Borth beside the sea.
[Picture: Borth from the South]