I have been Merlin wandering in the woods Of a far country, where the winds waken Unnatural voices , my mind broken By a sudden acquaintance with man's rage.

somewhere within sight of the tree of poetry that is eternity wearing the green leaves of time .

They left no books , Memorial to their lonely thought In grey parishes: rather they wrote On men's hearts and in the minds Of young children sublime words Too soon forgotten. God in his time Or out of time will correct this.

Poetry is that / which arrives at the intellect / by way of the heart.

To live in Wales is to be conscious at dusk of the spilled blood that went into the making of the wild sky

The nearest we approach God ...is as creative beings. The poet, by echoing the primary imagination, recreates. Through his work he forces those who read him to do the same, thus bringing them... nearer to the actual being of God as displayed in action.

Is there a place here for the spirit ? Is there time on this brief platform for anything other than mind 's failure to explain itself?