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

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

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.

I have been Merlin wandering in the woods Of a far country, where the winds waken Unnatural voices , my mind broken By a sudden acquaintance with man's rage.

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

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