St Davids Day Poems



St Davids Day Poems is the web page for material suitable to use on 1st March each year which is the occasion of the celebration of the patron saint of Wales…Dydd Gwyl Dewi Sant is the Welsh for Saint David’s Day. People of Welsh descent are now all over the World, predominantly England, USA, Australia and New Zealand but in far smaller numbers than, for example, the Irish



St Davids Day Poems

St Davids Day

St Davids Day
A cause for celebration
Carried out in
THE WELSH WAY
A time of daffodils and leeks
Our day should last for several weeks!
A time to hear the children sing
Enjoy a feast fit for a King
And wear our National Costume proud
While shouting LONG LIVE WALES
Lorelei Marks

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Aberystwyth

The costal tides
Bring breeze to the air
The sweet sunshine
Lights the sails, bow and sea
A glisten from the moonlit night
Saw the dawn flee with fright

Sunny beach of sand and rock.
Mocking birds who sing and talk
Washed up wonders
Broken things
Reincarnated with springs sweet wings
A dew which sets
From morning gale
Emily Kingston

**

St Davids Day Poems

Our Noble Wye

On the banks of this gentle, noble Wye,
Where you and I did sit and dream,
Of days to come, and times to be,
And nights of dancing fleeting by,
To taste the things of youth and try,
When we were young love, you and I.
We did not fear age creeping by,
No thought gave we to growing old,
When in our youth both quick and free,
As we sat on the bank of Noble Wye,
So much in love, just you, and I,
Closer now as the years go by.
Old time, and youth, how fast they fly,
Just memories of those days remain,
An age it seems, since we sat in love,
Two as one, just you, and I,
Watching the river gliding by,
On the willowed banks of the Noble Wye.
We dreamed as the river ran swiftly by,
Of houses gardens, and children too,
We swore that we would never part,
And swore true love until we die,
And those eyes I hoped would never cry,
On the banks of the gentle Noble Wye.
The summer breeze singing in grasses dry,
The songs we knew so long ago,
And the dancing on the village green,
The cygnets call as they learn to fly,
Leather on Willow, and the fielders cry,
Echo down through the ages of the Noble Wye,
As we lay in wind blown grasses high,
And recall those days when first we met,
Places we knew, still in memory clear,
And our life together, you and I,
Like the hurrying water passing by,
The banks of this gentle, Noble Wye.
Gwyn Tilley

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