Perchance the maid I love, e'en now,
From Dinas Brân's majestic brow,
Looks o'er the fairy world below,
And listens to the sound!
I feel her presence on the scene!
The summer-air is more serene,
The deep woods wave in richer green,
The wave more gently flows!
Oh! fair as Ocean's curling foam!*[1]
Lo! with the balmy hour I come,
The hour that brings the wanderer home,
The weary to repose!
Haste! on each mountain's darkening crest,
The glow hath died, the shadows rest,
- ↑
* "My loving heart sinks with grief without thy support, O thou that hast the whiteness of the curling waves!*****I know that this pain will avail me nothing towards obtaining thy love, O thou whose countenance is bright as the flowers of the hawthorn!"— Howel's Ode to Myfanwy.
