In the gardens in the Rhondda
The daffodils dance and shine
When tired men trudge homeward
From factory and mine.
The daffodils dance in the gardens
Behind the grim brown row
Built amongst the slagheaps
In a hurry long ago.
They dance as though in passion
To shame and to indict
The brutes who built so basely
In the long Victorian night.
– by Idris Davies
Rambling At The Bridge Head 