Gwirwyd y dudalen hon
What are months and years to mothers—
Sleep, my darling, so ;
Thou alone, unlike the others,
Dost not older grow :
They are restless, restless ever,
Causing me dismay;
Not so thou, my darling, never
Does my dead one stray.
Slumber yet awhile, Goronwy,
Under that gray stone;
I must say "Good night," Goronwy,
Leaving thee alone:
Strange that cradle! hand of mother
Need not rock thee now:
Sleep until we meet each other,—
Sleep, and blest be thou.
Cyfieithydd:
J. W. WYNNE-JONES, M.A.,
Ficer Caernarfon.
