The White Stone.
Though far from my poor, feeble hand,
My country’s harp of gold,
Though far from that dear home I stand,
Where it was played of old,
My mother tongue hath yet a spell
And inward voice, which bids me tell
My tale in song that Wales loves well,
Whatever aliens hold.
A tiny streamlet wandering strayed
Beneath our garden wall,
Where one of my forefathers made
A mimic waterfall.
Above the spot the willows weep,
Where down its height the water poured,
And on the bank beside the deep
Fair apple trees keep ward.
Across the pool where fell the spate
A bridge of wood was thrown;
And marble-like, to bear its weight,
There stood a big white stone.
Here all my boyhood’s hours sped by,
Here would I sit contentedly,
And on this stone as happy I
As king upon his throne!
Where’er in this wide world I be,
Where’er I yet may roam,
The great white stone I ever see,
And hear the stream at home.
And when to strangers I confess
That in my dreams I thither fly,
They pardon me, for all men bless
Each childish memory.
Far off, far off are childhood’s days,
And starry as the sky,
Nor lives the man but loves to raise
His head with wistful eye
Towards the days that are no more:
And as I turn towards that shore,
For me one star burns evermore—
My childhood’s dear white stone.