Welsh from Traditional Verse, Seventeenth Century It’s the erotic sap which ripen the fields, It’s the blood of poets who’s souls got lost­­­­­ in the paths of nature. Harmonies spill from her welling crag, sweet rhythms she abandons to us. In bright morning the hearth smokes, and its plumes are arms Lifting up the mist. Listen to love affairs erupt in the water of the poplar grove, wingless birds abandoned in the grasses! The serenading trees with their snapping and cracking – the rough plains becoming mountains

Welsh, Unknown, Tenth Century Under snow-bent trees and by wintering fire, I rise and give praise; to Morfan, son of Tegid, so robust in his ugliness, no weapon dared strike him not even in the battle of Camlan*,. as all thought he was servant to a demon. A river of hair roamed his face; moon yellow teeth; a cornered bull. He fought at Camlan, alongside Sandde Angel-Face, so handsome a man no spear came his way as all thought he was servant to an angel. I send