OLD BRYNHYFRYD GARDEN by Kenneth Morris

There's a quiet old enchantment of the heart that's calling, calling From when Myrddin wielded magic powers, and Gwydion wove his tales; And you'll hear it any April morn, when the apple-bloom is falling In old Brynhyfryd Garden, in White, Wild Wales. There's an Ousel in the Orchard there, and dear knows what he's telling; But I think there's Welsh comes welling from his throat when no one's nigh, And it's he that in Cilgwri in the olden days was dwelling, And he saw the Quest of Cilhwch, and the old worlds die. 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; It's a rumor of immortal hopes, Immortal Hearts returning That's in old Brynhyfryd Garden in the white West of Wales.