WRIT IN A BOOK OF WELSH VERSE
THIS is the house where I was bred: The wind blows through it without stint, The wind bitten by the roadside mint; Here brake I loaf, here climbed to bed.
The fuchsia on the window sill; Even the candlesticks a-row, Wrought by grave men so long ago — I loved them once, I love them still.
Southward and westward a great sky! — The throb of sea within mine ear — Then something different, more near, As though a wistful foot went by.
Ghost of a ghost down all the years! — In low-roofed room, at turn of stair, At table-setting, and at prayer, Old wars, old hungers, and old tears!