C.D. Warner, et al., comp.
The Library of the World’s Best Literature. An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.
Ernest Rhys (18591946)
The Wedding of Pale Bronwen
And it cried in the gray birch-tree,
And the cry was plain in Bronwen’s bower,
“O Bronwen, come to me!”
“What bird to my bower is flown?
For my lover, Red Ithel, is at the wars
Before Jerusalem town.”
“Come forth, ’tis your wedding morn,
And you must be wed in Holy Land
Ere your little babe is born.”
“Kind Bronwen, come!” until
She could not rest, and rose to look
To the sea beyond Morva Hill.
“Kind Bronwen, come to me!”
Till she could not stay, for very love,
And stole away to the sea.
And away she sailed so fine:
“Is it far, my love, in the summer sun
To the shores of fair Palestine?”
To watch pale Bronwen drown;
But the sun was hot on the deadly sands
Before Jerusalem town.
But he thought of the far-off sea;
And he cried all day till his lips grew white,
“Kind Bronwen, come to me!”
And then the sea-wind came,
And he thought he lay on Morva Hill
And heard her call his name.
“This is the day,” she said,
“And this is the hour, that Holy Church
Has given for us to wed.”
But his eyes had yet their say:—
“Kind Bronwen, now we will be wed
For ever and ever and aye!”
Red Ithel beneath the sand;
But they are one in Holy Church,
One in love’s Holy Land.
And she in the deep sea lies;
But I trow their little babe was born
In the gardens of Paradise.