Bare all the trees, little force now required;
Cheerful the cock; by dark the thief inspired.

Whilst the Twelve Months thus trip in dance untired,
Round youthful minds Satan still weaves his fetter.
Justly spake Yscolan, Wisdom's sage begetter,
"Than an evil prophecy God is ever better."





THE TERCETS

(After Llywarch Hen, a sixth-century prince and poet)


Set is the snare, the ash clusters glow,
Ducks plash in the pools; breakers whiten below;
More strong than a hundred is the heart's hidden woe.

Long is the night; resounding the shore,
Frequent in crowds a tumultuous roar,
The evil and good disagree evermore.

Long is the night; the hill full of cries;
O'er the tree-tops the wind whistles and sighs,
Ill nature deceives not the wit of the wise.

The greening birch saplings asway in the air