Nothing but a ruin now
 Between moorland and meadow,
 Once the owners saw in you
 A comely cottage, bright, new,
 Now roof, rafters, ridge-pole, all
 Broken down by a broken wall.

 A day of delight was once there
 For me, long ago, no care
 When I had a glimpse of her
 Fair in an ingle-corner.
 Beside each other we lay
 In the delight of that day.

 Her forearm, snowflake-lovely,
 Softly white, pillowing me,
 Proffered a pleasant pattern
 For me to give in my turn,
 And that was our blessing for
 The new-cut lintel and door.

 Now the wild wind, wailing by,
 Crashes with curse and with cry
 Against my stones, a tempest
 Born and bred in the East,
 Or south ram-batterers break
 The shelter that folk forsake.

 Life is illusion and grief;
 A tile whirls off, as a leaf
 Or a lath goes sailing, high
 In the keening of kite-kill cry.
 Could it be our couch once stood
 Sturdily under that wood?
 Pillar and post, it would seem
 Now are less than a dream.
 Are you that, or only the lost
 Wreck of a fiddle, rune-ghost?

 "Dafydd, the cross on their graves
 Marks what little it saves,
 Says, They did well in their lives."