White flour, earth-flesh, a cold fleece on the mountain, small snow of
the chill black day; snow like a platter, bitter cold plumage, a softness
sent to entrammel me.
White snow on the cold hill above has blinded me and soaked my clothes.
By the blessed God! I had no hope I should ever get to my house.
THE HOSTESS OF THE FERRY INN
I keep the custom of the ferry, a tavern none can blame, a white-
robed moon giving sweet welcome to him that comes with silver.
'Tis my desire to be, to all men's content, a faultless world to my
guests, and to sing among them in familiar converse as I pour out
the mead
Note :- Gwerfyl Mechain was a poetess, and so a " rara avis " of the Welsh fifteenth century. What we know of her life would hardly fill a wren's egg. She has been credited with a number of avidly sexual poems, but this is to add the unknowable to the unknown.
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