Sunlight 's a thing that needs a window Before it enter a dark room. Windows don't happen." So two old poets, Hunched at their beer in the low haze Of an inn parlour, while the talk ran Noisily by them, glib with prose.

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

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.

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

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

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

I have nowhere to go. The swift satellites show The clock of my whole being is slow.