Why do I make so much of Aber Fall?
Four years ago
My little boy was with me here,
He died next year:
He died just seven years old,
A very gentle child, yet bold,
Having no fear.
You have seen such?
They are not much?
No . . . no.
And yet he was a very righteous child,
Stood up for what was right,
Intolerant of wrong, Pure azure light
Was cisterned in his eyes;
We thought him wise
Beyond his years, so sweet and mild,
For justice, doing what he could,
Poor little soul, to make all children good.
I almost think, and yet I am to blame,
He was a different child from others;
He had three sisters and two brothers:
He seemed a little king:
Among the children, ah I ‘tis a common thing,
Parents are all the same,
You’ve seen those kings, yes, yes,
Of course . . . and yet . . . the righteousness
The . . . Never mind! he came
With me to Aber Fall,
That’s all, that’s all.