IIII

     Burn, Sun, down the sea! 
     Bran lies low with thee.

     Burst, Morn, from the main! 
     Bran so shall rise again.

     Blow, Wind, from the field! 
     Bran’s Head is the Briton’s shield.

     Beam, Star, in the West! 
     Bright burns the Head of Bran the Blest.

     IV

     Crimson-footed, like the stork,
     From great ruts of slaughter,
     Warriors of the Golden Torque
     Cross the lifting water. 
     Princes seven, enchaining hands,
     Bear the live head homeward. 
     Lo! it speaks, and still commands: 
     Gazing out far foamward.

     Fiery words of lightning sense
     Down the hollows thunder;
     Forest hostels know not whence
     Comes the speech, and wonder. 
     City-Castles, on the steep,
     Where the faithful Seven
     House at midnight, hear, in sleep,
     Laughter under heaven.

     Lilies, swimming on the mere,
     In the castle shadow,
     Under draw their heads, and Fear
     Walks the misty meadow. 
     Tremble not! it is not Death
     Pledging dark espousal: 
     ’Tis the Head of endless breath,
     Challenging carousal!

     Brim the horn! a health is drunk,
     Now, that shall keep going: 
     Life is but the pebble sunk;
     Deeds, the circle growing! 
     Fill, and pledge the Head of Bran! 
     While his lead they follow,
     Long shall heads in Britain plan
     Speech Death cannot swallow!

     The meeting

     The old coach-road through a common of furze,
     With knolls of pine, ran white;
     Berries of autumn, with thistles, and burrs,
     And spider-threads, droop’d in the light.

     The light in a thin blue veil peered sick;
     The sheep grazed close and still;
     The smoke of a farm by a yellow rick
     Curled lazily under a hill.

     No fly shook the round of the silver net;
     No insect the swift bird chased;
     Only two travellers moved and met
     Across that hazy waste.

     One was a girl with a babe that throve,
     Her ruin and her bliss;
     One was a youth with a lawless love,
     Who clasped it the more for this.

     The girl for her babe hummed prayerful speech;
     The youth for his love did pray;
     Each cast a wistful look on each,
     And either went their way.

     The beggar’s soliloquy

     I

     Now, this, to my notion, is pleasant cheer,
     To lie all alone on a ragged heath,
     Where your nose isn’t sniffing for bones or beer,
     But a peat-fire smells like a garden beneath. 
     The cottagers bustle about the door,
     And the girl at the window ties her strings. 
     She’s a dish for a man who’s a mind to be poor;
     Lord! women are such expensive things.