Blodeu'r gwynwydd

How closely the woodbine has twined round my bow'r!

How sweet its perfume, and how lovely its flower;

The beauty and fragrance thus wasted on air,

Might mingle their sweets with the charms of my fair:

The blossoms expand in the beam of her eye,

Then sink on her bosom, enraptur'd, and die.

How often I think when entwining its boughs,

Would my soul's darling idol here witness my vows;

Not the pilgrims that visit St Wenefrede's shrine,

Could shew a devotion so ardent as mine;

To their virgin saint while they offer a part,

My all I'd resign to the queen of my heart.

To the banks of the Wye would she wander to view

My woodbine, when weeping with evening's soft dew;

It's balm-breathing beauties so fresh would appear,

My arbour so gay, and my fountain so clear:

That Lucy herself with a smile might approve

The work of wild fancy thus guided by love.