I.
The wind was waked by the morning light,
And it cried in the gray birch-tree,
And the cry was plain in Bronwen's bower,
"Oh, Bronwen, come to me!"
Pale, pale sleeps Bronwen, pale she wakes;
"What bird to my bower is flown?
For my lover, Red Ithel, is at the wars
Before Jerusalem town."
But still the wind sang in the tree,
"Come forth,'tis your wedding morn,
And you must be wed in Holy Land
Ere your little babe is born."
And still the wind had her true-love's cry,
"Kind Bronwen, come!" until
She could not rest, and rose to look
To the sea beyond Morva Hill.
And afar came the cry over Morva Hill,
"Kind Bronwen, come to me!"
Till she could not stay, for very love,
And stole away to the sea.
She crossed the hill to the fishing-boats,
And away she sailed so fine,
"Is it far, my love, in the summer sun
To the shores of fair Palestine?"