Y Rhosyn a’r Wylan

There’s a rose at Number Seven,
Tho’ the air is wintered now,
And it glows at Number Seven,
In the brain behind my brow.

There’s a gull that turns the stillness
Of the air above my head:
’Tis the gull that spurns the illness
Of the creed where color’s dead.

There’s a rose at Number Seven;
There’s a gull that turns that air:
And what glows at Number Seven
Is the spurner lofting there.