Readers of the previous article know that this was described in heroic verse by the poet Iolo Goch. I have looked in vain for a translation of the poem on the internet--it was most recently translated in a 1993 work by D. Johnston, and as such is still in copyright. In its place I give you this poem by Medieval Welsh poet Dafydd ab Gwylim, his ode to May, into whose bounty we enter:
MAY.
Many a poet in his lay
Told me May would come again.
Truly sang the bard - for May
Yesterday began to reign!
She is like a bounteous lord,
Gold enough she gives to me -
Gold such as the poets hoard -
'Florins' of the mead and tree,
Hazel-flowers, and 'fleurs-de-lis.'
Underneath her leafy wings
I am safe from treason's stings;
I am full of wrath with May
That she will not always stay!
Maidens never hear of love
But when she has plumed the grove.
Giver of the gift of song,
To the poet's heart and tongue.
May! majestic child of heaven,
To the earth is glory given,
Verdant hills, days long and clear,
Come when she is hovering near.
Stars, ye cannot journey on
Joyously when she is gone!
Ye are not so glossy bright,
Blackbirds, when she takes her flight;
Sweetest art thou nightingale
Poet, thou cans't tell thy tale
With a lighter heart, when May
Rules with all liner bright array!
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