Welsh Journals

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I WAS born to be poor, And poor I am sure to be. But the wealthiest man in Wales Is the man most free. Free from blame of power From the need to beg for pardon. But with free air on the mountain, And a rose-tree in the garden. I hold a rich hope, too, To those richer times to come. When a man may settle his feet On all the wide earth for home. And I have another land Intangible within my mind; Whose glories shall tower, unveiled By word or wand or wind. Westminster Bridge SINCE the light lifts what memory's architecture destroys Where silver-grey, dust's pencil writes a moulded, suffering tale, The lids must close to see, where a mute fountain plays, True lovers rise from scribbled names, men, women, girls and boys. The waters are sick, the clock ticks death, dull rumour's cart of days Carrying the plague-scarred over the river, roars like ale Mulled in a mill-race, traffic-throated at the bar of noise How should my pulse find words in the stone, translated for Wales ? But light, light, the dazzling one, the innocent, replies They have quarried buildings of your bare hills. These figures around an urn Cross the bought flood; they fix you with their bartered eyes. The bridge is a treadmill; alone the bathers, naked, are bom. Yet all is unique, all sacred, where the anonymous garment is worn. The true, the afflicted, are one, coin-cankered in dubious disguise. Birthright WILLIAM MORGAN. VERNON WATKINS.