IN GOWER by ARTHUR GLYN PRYS-JONES

I

MY matins are remembered well,
The lark will never let me bide:
And then at dusk the sailors' bell
Calls evensong along the tide.
And that white chorister the sea
Awaits not word nor any sign,
But worships here eternally
Where every cliff becomes a shrine.

II

This is a garden of delight
Set fragrant in an ancient land
Where dawn is a pale rose, and night
A dream one may not understand.
And here are gold and silver sands,
And caves where many a buried king
Lies musing, with his folded hands,
On sunsets past imagining:
And pools and busy of utter rest,
Deep pools where care will surely drown:
Where dusk comes softly to her guest
From russet hills in russet gown.

III

And when the quiet stars are hung
About the moon where each belongs,
I hear the ghosts of all the songs
The busy world has left unsung.
But, when I strive their souls to pen
Within my cage of mortal words,
They swiftly fly beyond my ken—
Yet singing like a thousand birds.

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