Dafydd ap Gwilym Resents the Winter
Across North Wales The snowflakes wander, A swarm of white bees. Over the woods A cold veil lies. A load of chalk Bows down the trees.
No undergrowth Without its wool, No field unsheeted; No path is left Through any field; On every stump White flour is milled.
Will someone tell me What angels lift Planks in the flour-loft Floor of heaven, Shaking down dust? An angel's cloak Is cold quicksilver.
And here below The big drifts blow, Blow and billow Across the heather Like swollen bellies. The frozen foam Falls in fleeces.
Out of my house I will not stir For any girl To have my coat Look like a miller's Or stuck with feathers Of eider down.
What a great fall Lies on my country! A wide wall, stretching One sea to the other, Greater and grayer Than the sea's graveyard. When will rain come?