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32 Only a vision of waters Rising towards the flow, Cometh instead of the countless hills, The hills that I used to know. O fy hen Gymraeg ! The people are frozen hard here — Not you, my darling, not you ! — And the air is thick with its yellow fog, And the streets have slime for dew. There is never a line of beauty In all the weary rows, And the saddest thing of the whole is this, That the bareness no one knows ; They are quite contented, and think it fine. O fy hen Gymraeg ! Hush thee a moment, dearest, A vision is mine just now : The place where of old we used to play, On the edge of the mountain's brow :