A poem by A. G. Prys-Jones

The mountains of Glamorgan
Look down towards the sea
Their songs are clear as any bell
In melodies that rise and swell;
And steadfastly they sentinel,
A Vale of mystery.

The mountains of Glamorgan
Are wondrous in the Spring
I think our dead folk gather there
To bless this land in song and prayer,
For every grove and woodland lair
Grows loud with whispering.

When I have reached my journey's end
And I am dead, and free,
I pray that God will let me go
To wander with them, to and fro,
Along those singing hills I know
That look towards the sea.