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.

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

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

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?

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

Even God had a Welsh name : He spoke to him in the old language; He was to have a peculiar care For the Welsh people. History showed us He was too big to be nailed to the wall Of a stone chapel, yet still we crammed him Between the boards of a black book .

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