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.

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

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.

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

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

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