© 2010 Roger Carrington
R WILLIAMS PARRY – ODE TO THE SUMMER
The Love Messenger
Late last night,
with the March waves in the sea,
and the snow whitening the land,
I tarried long over the embers
of the light hearth, and after I had long been contemplating,
I suddenly dreamt
of July’s golden sun amidst
its choice flowers. The dream came like magic.
As I tarried awhile
on a hillside yonder
in the sound of the echoing murmurs
that come from woodland and forest to wild and civilised alike,
I heard reapers, muscled men,
working in the meadows with the sinewy strength,
and the happy laughter of those
gathering the cream of the harvest.
Between me and the wide lands
there played the haze of a golden day;
and above me the azure sky had become
a distant illusion of pure magic.
I could see, like gossamer, in the folds of the haze,
the glory of golden abundance;
there was beautiful coral, acres of heather
and waves of barley under the haze.
From the hill, with its taste of summer,
I then descended
and walked through the amber-
in the uncultivated woodland of old age.
The lark’s warm song was no more magical
than the hill’s other bird-
I then left the woods, in their mantle
of leafy clouds, for the meadow’s sun.
The breeze blew
between the incomporable walls of the meadow’s hedges
and over the chaotic wild rose,
and blew again.
There was now a lengthy lustre to be seen
running through the land’s richness – a broad river
running through gardens where birds sang with joy;
and I moved forward to see them.
There was summer on either side of the river,
and the sun’s wealth
shed its bright, golden beams
of silk over the waves.
The breeze was scented; the river’s busy lullaby
made it known that the insects had been let out.
There were leafy trees on its two banks; and under
their cosy brims I saw a haven.
And I saw two people
who had rowed into the haven;
and heard the pretty laughter
of a red-
And as the two, without delay,
began rowing fervently again, and summer was in the land,
I thought I heard clearly from the bank
my own name on the maiden’s lips.
And how sad it was to awaken today,
to see the empty, faded, hearth
without embers, and to open
the cottage’s door on an empty world.
But the sun was there, awakening valley
and hill, with no magic in its beams.
No breeze or white snow remained –
both, like the night, had vanished.
And on the lawn by the bush
I predicted the growth of spring;
and behold, I found a flower
that reminded me of the White Friar.
And the afternoon breeze through the trees
brought in a whisper to my heart the words:
“Every harp since before memory began has proclaimed
how fair this Canaan is. Direct yourself thither.”
Summer always dies to live,
and I am better for its passing.
I learn, as my sun falls,
that it will come again.
I no longer despair
that my love will ever return to me.
Who knows the journey’s end?
Let its unknowing be the hope of the world.
Translation from the Welsh by Gwynn ap Gwilym ©
Oil -