Fingers brush the harp strings at the stirring of the dawn,
Plucking strands of music from a world dark and forlorn,
Melodies as plangent as a pitch black stormy sea,
Harmonies as dulcet as the birds high in the trees.
A golden gleam of sunrise parts the clouds up in the sky,
And bound by awen every word is truth and ne’er a lie,
The Harper parts her lips to sing the dawn into the day
And every word is gentled by the music that she plays.