Verse should be as natural As the small tuber that feeds on muck And grows slowly from obtuse soil To the white flower of immortal beauty

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

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

You cannot find the centre Where we dance , where we play, Where life is still asleep Under the closed flower , Under the smooth shell Of eggs in the cupped nest That mock the faded blue Of your remoter heaven .

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.

The old men ask for more time; the young waste it. And the philosopher simply smiles, knowing there is none there.

It is too late to start For destinations not of the heart . I must stay here with my hurt.