Who Knows, Said I, But This Is The Tree
That Was Planted Over Ab Gwilym's Grave, And To Which Gruffydd Gryg
Wrote An Ode?
I looked at it attentively, and thought that there
was just a possibility of its being the identical tree.
If it was,
however, the benison of Gruffydd Gryg had not had exactly the
effect which he intended, for either lightning or the force of wind
had splitten off a considerable part of the head and trunk, so that
though one part of it looked strong and blooming, the other was
white and spectral. Nevertheless, relying on the possibility of
its being the sacred tree, I behaved just as I should have done had
I been quite certain of the fact. Taking off my hat I knelt down
and kissed its root, repeating lines from Gruffydd Gryg, with which
I blended some of my own in order to accommodate what I said to
present circumstances:-
"O tree of yew, which here I spy,
By Ystrad Flur's blest monast'ry,
Beneath thee lies, by cold Death bound,
The tongue for sweetness once renown'd.
Better for thee thy boughs to wave,
Though scath'd, above Ab Gwilym's grave,
Than stand in pristine glory drest
Where some ignobler bard doth rest;
I'd rather hear a taunting rhyme
From one who'll live through endless time,
Than hear my praises chanted loud
By poets of the vulgar crowd."
I had left the churchyard, and was standing near a kind of garden,
at some little distance from the farm-house, gazing about me and
meditating, when a man came up attended by a large dog.
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