Yr Eneth Ffyddlon

Ar dorriad y wawrddydd
    ar foreu o Fai,
A'r adar yn neidio
    trwy'r coedydd yn chwai,
  Wrth deithio trwy fynwent,
      wrth Eglwys rhyw blwy'
  Mewn ardal o Gymru -
      'n ei enwi nid wy', -

Mi welwn lân eneth
    mewn gwisgoedd yn wych,
Yn ail i angyles
    mewn agwedd a drych,
  Yn fuain ei chamrau
      yn nesu o draw,
  A blodau amryliw
      yn llenwi ei llaw.

Ymguddiais o'r golwg
    i wybod beth oedd
Ei hamcan a'i neges
    mewn lle mor angh'oedd,
  Heb neb yn gydymaith -
      mor foreu o'r dydd -
  Gan adael cymdeithas
      am fangre mor brudd.

Yn fuan y cyrchai
    at feddrod wrth fin
Prif-lwybyr y fynwent,
    a syrthiai ar ei glin;
  A'r llysiau a blannai
      yn lluniaidd â'i llaw,
  A'i golwg yn gymmysg
      o fwynder a braw.

Y dagrau a sychai
    o'i deurudd, fun lân,
A'i napcyn ag ydoedd
    o liw'r eira mân, -
  A chlywn ei lleferydd,
      i'm meddwl i'n syn,
  Yn treiddio trwy'r awel
      yn rhywfodd fel hyn,

Fan hon y mae'n gorwedd
    yn dawel yr un
A garwn mor anwyl
    â'm henaid fy hun:
  Ond angau a'i dygodd
      i'm galar di daw,
  Yr amser yr oeddym
      ar uno'n dwy law.

Fan hon y mae'n gorphwys
    o swn byd a'i si,
Y cyfan îs heulwen
    sydd anwyl i mi;
  Clau dyfwch, heirdd flodau,
      yn fwyn ar ei fedd,
  Er methu mewn glendid
      ddynwared ei wedd.

Ca'dd gennyf anrhegion
    yn fwy wrth ei fodd, -
Fy llaw yn addewid, -
    fy ngwallt iddo'n rhodd,
  A hollol gydsyniad
      i gym'ryd fy rhan,
  O'i wynfyd neu'i adfyd -
      yn wych neu yn wan.

Wrth eistedd fan yma
    mor foddus yr wyf,
Y man lle mae'm meddwl
    b'le bynnag y b'wyf, -
  Pe teithiwn y ddaear
      o'i hamgylch i gyd,
  Fan hon b'ai canolbwynt
      gwastadol fy mryd.

Er nad wyt o'r ddaear
    yn gwedyd un gair -
Er nad wyt yn gwenu
    fel gwenaist ar Mair -
  Mae etto, f'anwylyd,
      yn gysur i mi
  Gael eistedd am ennyd
      yn agos i ti.

Dy lygaid mwyn siriol
    fy meddwl a wêl,
A chofiaf dy eiriau
    mor beraidd â'r mêl, -
  Dy fedd a gofleidiaf
      pe'n canfod b'ai'r byd,
  A mynnaf ein gweled
      fel gynt etto 'nghŷd.

At the break of dawn
    on a morning of May,
With the birds jumping
    through the wood nimbly,
  While travelling through the cemetery,
      by the Church of some parish
  In a region of Wales -
      naming it I am not.

I saw a pure girl
    in garments brilliant,
A second to angels
    in aspect and appearance,
  Her steps quick
      approaching from yonder,
  With variously coloured flowers
      filling her hand.

I hid from view
    to know what was
Her intention and her errand
    in a place so unpublic,
  Without any companion -
      so early in the day -
  Leaving society
      for a place so sad.

Soon she would set out
    for a grave by the side
Of the main path of the cemetery,
    and would fall on her knee;
  With the herbs she would plant
      artfully with her hand,
  And her look a mixture
      of gentleness and terror.

The tears which were drying
    from her cheeks, the pure maiden,
With her napkin which was
    of the colour of fine snow, -
  And I could hear her speech,
      surprising to my thought,
  Penetrating through the breeze
      somehow like this,

Here is lying
    quietl the one
I loved as dearly
    as my own soul:
  But death took him
      to my unending sorrow,
  The time we were
      about to join our hands.

In this place he is resting
    from the sound of the world and its murmur,
The whole under the sunshine
    which is beloved to me;
  Swiftly grow, beautiful flowers,
      gently on his grave,
  For the failing in comeliness
      to imitate his countenance.

He got from me gifts
    more to his satisfaction, -
My hand in promise, -
    my hair to him as a gift,
  And wholly consenting
      to take my part,
  From his blessedness or his adversity -
      brilliantly or weakly.

While sitting here
    how content I am,
The place where I am thinking of
    wherever I be, -
  If I should travel the world
      all around,
  This place would be the constant
      focus of my attention.

Although thou art not from the earth
    speaking one word -
Although thou art not smiling
    as thou didst smile on Mary -
  It is still, my beloved,
      a comfort to me
  To get to still for a while
      near to thee.

Thy gentle, cheerful eyes
    my thought sees,
And I remember thy words
    as sweet as the honey, -
  Thy grave I will embrace
      if the world were finding us,
  And I insist on our being seen
      like before, together again.