THE TERCETS
(After Llywarch Hen, a sixth-century prince and poet)
| 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 asway 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 couldst Thou create cowards here! |