Elegy for Gruffudd Gryg

	Harsh was the snatching from our midst (an inherent violence)

	of a jewel, Taliesin of praise.

	I grieved, this was no gentle violence,

4	but severe, dire, like the three dead men.

	Poetry, there's no denying, has been made to ebb away

	the world over, the most boorish violence there ever was.

	Over my cheek (a foolish flood)

8	flow tears for that most pleasant of men.

	Wise Gruffudd — of eloquent song —

	Gryg, by the rood, was he.

	There is sorrow on account of his poems,

12	set square of praise, nightingale of the men of Môn,

	fashioner of all true meaning

	and lawbook of proper language,

	the standard for the wise and worthy,

16	and the well–spring of song and its refined chief,

	and its tuning horn (a good flawless song),

	its key–string too; noblemen, alas!

	Who now shall sing from his fine book,

20	poet of Goleuddydd, she of the colour of flowing waters?

	Inspired verse came readily from his lips,

	primate and dignity of song.

	No word of love is mentioned,

24	no one sings (I'm used to sighing) a single song,

	since he went (a lamentable wealth)

	beneath a grave in mute silence.

	No wailing poet laughs, for sorrow,

28	the world has known no joy.

	No fair bird would sing,

	May's blackbird, he's no longer proud.

	Neither nightingale nor cuckoo sings

32	nor prospers in advancing love,

	nor will there be after Gruffudd Gryg

	a thrush of unfailing double speech,

	nor cywydd to meadows or leaves,

36	nor songs — green leaves, farewell!

	For a modest maid it was a sorry tale

	to lay in the splendid marble chancel of Llan–faes

	as much song, God knows (a treasure that is rightfully ours),

40	as was laid together there.

	The very essence of lovingness

	has been placed in a coffin by the chancel's edge.

	An oak coffin (a dreadful distress)

44	conceals the hawk of fine proud song;

	of a loved one's songs (a mighty payment)

	there was never a chestful such as that.

	As for the song of poetry's splendid art,

48	all his power has come to a captive end.

	Excellent ruler of gentle verse,

	there's a coffin that's full of song!

	Alas, dear generous God, Christ on high,

52	that there's no one who may open that coffin!

	If ever a fair splendid maid

	loved to hear fine praise with a harp,

	I judge that verse–craft is widowed,

56	and now our song is frail.

	It's as if the gracious art of poetry

	has been pawned, the song itself is sad.

	After Gruffudd the most assured verse

60	will but decline without Ovid's art.

	A bird whose song of paradise was pure,

	he was indeed a bird from heaven's land.

	It was from heaven he came, refined songster,

64	to praise in verse the woodland's beauty;

	inspired poet who was nurtured on wine,

	to heaven (worthy was he) he returned.