Math, upon a summer day, Gathered blossoms of the May; Cherry-blossom, too, which fell On the surface of a well; Silver froth, and foam of flowers, Golden rays on drifting showers; Dew, and frost, and flames of fire, And he fashioned his desire: Made a woman, slim and fair, Blodeuwedd of the lovely hair.

Blodeuwedd of the shining face Ranged the forest, with the grace Of a forest-thing, as wild, Wilful as a wanton child. How could men withhold their eyes From her? She was light, the skies, Dawn, and dew to them. It seemed, Looking at her, that they dreamed All the joys of heaven had been Hidden her twin breasts between, Bound upon her tranquil brows That were white as winter snows, Hidden in her curving lips, Folded round her flowing hips. Yea! for them she seemed to shine With a beauty all divine.

Blodeuwedd of the little ears Had, alas! no gift of tears, Had no heart at all to love, Knew not what deep sorrows move Through the dim ways of our heart, Knew of mortal grief no part. She, like sunlight through the rain, Drifted through our world of pain, Fed her joy with myriad kisses, Stolen pleasures, honeyed blisses; Then danced on her wanton way Like a gleam of gold through gray. Men fell, knowing they would fall, For Math gave no heart at all.