There's a lonely, lofty spirit that will fire your soul with craving
For the kind and haughty glory of the old, Heroic Kings,
Where the foxglove and sweet-william on the turf-topped walls are waving
In old Brynhyfryd Garden, when the West Wind sings.
There's a ruin filled with nettles, where I think Ceridwen lingers
When she's out to gather herbage for the Wisdom Broth she brews:
And maybe you'll close your eyes there, and you'll feel the touch of fingers,
Or the dropping down of healing with the cool June dews.
Ancient Magic of the World, it's the fires of you are burning
When the Wind is in the pine tops, and the moon is o'er the vales;