Dear Owain, when you are minded
To gather the perfect thing,
Over Abergavenny
Climb in the evening!—
I have seen where orchis dances
A saraband with the Spring;
Where samphire leans to ocean,
And shakes in the word he saith;
Or the brood of the peasant ragweed,
Innocent, sweet of breath,
Runs with a wild Welsh river
That never has heard of death;
Where thrift, with a foot shell-tinted,
On the dark coast-road delays;
And foxglove flames in a ruin;
And campion meekly lays
On a crag’s uneven shoulder
Her satiny cheek, for days.
Well: these in their mortal beauty,
And these in their youth, abound.
But over Abergavenny,
Past sunset-hour, I found
(O Holy Grail of a flower!)
The sun on the hilltop ground.