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

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

I am a man now. Pass your hand over my brow. You can feel the place where the brains grow.

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

The deep spaces between stars , Fathomless as the cold shadow His mind cast.

Natural, hell! What was it Chaucer Said once about the long toil that goes like blood to the poems making? Leave it to nature and the verse sprawls, Limp as bindweed, if it break at all Life's iron crust Man, you must sweat And rhyme your guts taut, if you'd build Your verse a ladder.

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