Saint David of Wales

Mine eyes were shy with secrets; I was hunted to the hills,
The shadow-hunt of the rider that, riding, never kills

But is lost in the heights and hears, over horrible chasms
hung,

The voice of his vanished foeman sing in a strange tongue

But ours was the Hound of Arthur, whose leap was long as
the day,

And the buried name of Britain that none but the Druids say,
And a song is hid in my speech; that sways like a tolling bell
For the men that went forth to battle; but they always fell

Thine is no pride, Princess, in the proud, the palpable things,
In the vast flat plans of the plains, that are traced in the
charts of kings:

He is thine that was born in the cavern, that died on the hill;
A hymn is hid in my speech; it may cry to thee still.