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

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

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?

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

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

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

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.