Welsh
The Calends of Winter

The Calends of Winter are come; the grain
Grows hard; the dead leaf drops in the rain;
Though the stranger bid thee, turn not again

The Calends of Winter; about the hearth
Draw the gossips close, as storm holds the earth;
Now many a secret spills in the mirth.

The Calends of Winter: forgot in the cold
The tale the Calends of Summer told -
What the cuckoo sang to the blackbird bold.

The Calends of Winter: the night falls soon,
Black as the raven; the afternoon
Declines into evening without a tune.

The Calends of Winter are come. The heath
Is bare where it was burnt. The breath
Of the oxen smokes. The old await death.

calends (the beginning of the Month, or in this poem, the Season)

Irish
The Rune of St Patrick (The Cry of the Deer)

At Tara today in this fateful hour
I place all Heaven with its power,
And the Sun with its brightness,
And the snow with its whiteness,
And fire with all the strength it hath,
And lightning with its sudden wrath,
And the winds with their speed along their path,
And the sea with its deeps.
And the rocks with their steeps,
And the earth with its starkness:
All these I place,
By God's almighty help and grace,
Between myself and the powers of darkness.

From the Appletree Press title: A Little Book of Celtic Verse

Also from Appletree:
Appletree Book of Celtic Verse, A Little Book of Irish Verse, A Little Book of Scottish Verse and A Little Book of English Verse.