Penmaen Pool

Who long for rest, who look for pleasureAway from counter, court, or schoolO where live well your lease of leisureBut here at, here at Penmaen Pool?

You'll dare the Alp? you'll dart the skiff?—Each sport has here its tackle and tool:Come, plant the staff by Cadair cliff;Come, swing the sculls on Penmaen Pool.

What's yonder?—Grizzled Dyphwys dim:The triple-hummocked Giant's stool,Hoar messmate, hobs and nobs with himTo halve the bowl of Penmaen Pool.

And all the landscape under survey,At tranquil turns, by nature's rule,Rides repeated topsyturvyIn frank, in fairy Penmaen Pool.

And Charles's Wain, the wondrous seven,And sheep-flock clouds like worlds of wool,For all they shine so, high in heaven,Shew brighter shaken in Penmaen Pool.

The Mawddach, how she trips! though throttledIf floodtide teeming thrills her full,And mazy sands all water-wattledWaylay her at ebb, past Penmaen Pool.

But what 's to see in stormy weather,When grey showers gather and gusts are cool?—Why, raindrop-roundels looped togetherThat lace the face of Penmaen Pool.

Then even in weariest wintry hourOf New Year's month or surly YuleFurred snows, charged tuft above tuft, towerFrom darksome darksome Penmaen Pool.

And ever, if bound here hardest home,You've parlour-pastime left and (who'llNot honour it?) ale like goldy foamThat frocks an oar in Penmaen Pool.

Then come who pine for peace or pleasureAway from counter, court, or school,Spend here your measure of time and treasureAnd taste the treats of Penmaen Pool.