Dyfal gasglwn haulbelydrau

Dyfal gasglwn haulbelydrau,
  Britho'n llwybrau mae y rhai'n;
Cadw wnawn y grawn a'r blodau,
  Taflwn heibio'r
      us a'r drain:
Yfwn bennydd o'r melusion,
  Sydd o'n hamgylch ar bob law;
Gyda thawel law amynedd,
  Trown y drysni heibio draw.

    Gwasgarwn had tiriondeb,
    Gwasgarwn had tiriondeb,
    Gwasgarwn had tiriondeb,
      Cawn ei fedi yn y man.

Pan y peidia'r adar ganu,
  Gwerthfawrogir
      swyn eu can; 
Mwy yw gwerth
    pereidd-dra'r rhosyn
  Ar ol gwywo'i ddalen lan;
Llawer tecach - mwy dymunol,
  Ydyw'r haf, a'i hyfryd wawr,
Pan ysgydwa'r gauaf gerwin
  Gnwd o eira dros y llawr.

Rhoes y plentyn bach ei fysedd
  Ar y gwydr gloyw, clir;
Pe gwybyddem byddai foru
  Wedi huno'n angeu'n wir -
Gawsai llygad byw y baban
  Weled ael o ddigllon wawr?
Gawsai ol ei fysedd tyner
  Ein cynhyrfu fel yn awr?

Fysedd bychain, dan rew angeu,
  Cofiant i ni, yn eu hiaith,
Gaied air a brysiog weithred
  Gaed oddiwrthym lawer gwaith;
Yn eu harch pregetha'r dwylaw -
  Gwynion ddwylaw'r plentyn gwan:-
"Peidwch gwasgar drain - ond blodau,
  Cewch eu medi yn yn man."

Devotedly let us gather sunbeams,
  Speckling our paths are they;
Let us keep the grain and the flowers,
  Let us cast away the
      chaff and the thorns:
Let us drink daily of the sweets,
  Which are around us on every hand;
With a quiet hand of patience,
  Let us turn far away the entanglement.

    Let us scatter seed of tenderness,
    Let us scatter seed of tenderness,
    Let us scatter seed of tenderness,
      We shall get to reap it soon.

When the birds stop singing,
  Their enchantment of their
      song is appreciated;
Greater is the worth of the
    perfume of the rose
  After its leaf dries up;
Much fairer - more desirable,
  Is the summer, and its lovely dawn,
When winter shakes its rough
  Crop of snow over the groung.

The little child put his fingers
  On the bright, clear glass;
If we had known he would tomorrow
  Truly have slept in death -
Would the living eyes of the baby
  Have seen the brow of an angry aspect?
Would the marks of his tender fingers
  Have agitated us like now?

Little fingers, under the ice of death,
  A reminder to us, in their language
A harsh word and hurried action
  Got from us many a time;
In their coffin the hand preach -
  The white hands of the weak child:-
"Do not scatter thorns - but flowers,
  You may get to reap them soon."

Let us gather up the sunbeams
  Lying all around our path;
Let us keep the wheat and roses,
  Casting out the
      thorns and chaff.
Let us find our sweetest comfort
  In the blessings of to-day,
With a patient hand removing
  All the briars from the way.

    Then scatter seeds of kindness,
    Then scatter seeds of kindness,
    Then scatter seeds of kindness,
      For our reaping by and by.

Strange we never prize the music
  Till the sweet-voiced
      bird is flown!
Strange that we should
    slight the violets
  Till the lovely flowers are gone!
Strange that summer skies and sunshine
  Never seem one-half so fair
As when winter's snowy pinions
  Shake the white down in the air.

If we knew the baby fingers
  Pressed against the window pane,
Would be cold and stiff tomorrow -
  Never trouble us again -
Would the bright eyes of our darling
  Catch the frown upon our brow?
Would the prints of rosy fingers
  Vex us then as they do now?

Ah! those little ice-cold fingers,
  How they point our memories back
To the hasty words and actions
  Strewn along our backward track!
How those little hands remind us,
  As in snowy grace they lie,
Not to scatter thorns - but roses -
  For our reaping by and by.