Merioneth

In that sweet, mild western air Castle stones are russet fire, Wind goes gentle, water clear, A minute is a quarter hour.

Golden broom on mountainside, Golden gorse along the road, Rowan, oak, and alder shade Lower ground with globe of cloud.

While their afternoon wears on, Old men, sitting in the sun, Warm on ankle bone and shin, Do not envy any man.

Slanting over shire and shore, Cader Idris, Traeth Mawr, Light is rich, though folk be poor, In that sweet, mild western air.