Gwirwyd y dudalen hon
"ORA PRO NOBIS."
My windows are darkened
By rain-storms without,
The gale of November
Is raising its rout;
The stalwarts of oak-forests
Shake to their base,
The sheep and the oxen
Crave sheltering place —
Our Father, remember
The birds in their woe;
So far is Thy summer,
So near is Thy snow.
In flood o'er the valley
The river gleams bright;
The clouds are swept onward,
Like legions in flight ;
My cot feels the buffet
Of squalls as they smite,
Yet, better the hearth-side
Than street such a night —
Our Father, remember
The arab out there;
So thin is his garment,
So biting Thy air.
