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

We live in our own world , A world that is too small For you to stoop and enter Even on hands and knees, The adult subterfuge.

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

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.

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

You cannot find the centre Where we dance , where we play, Where life is still asleep Under the closed flower , Under the smooth shell Of eggs in the cupped nest That mock the faded blue Of your remoter heaven .

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 .