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

I have known exile and a wild passion Of longing changing to a cold ache. King, beggar and fool , I have been all by turns, Knowing the body's sweetness, the mind 's treason ; Taliesin still, I show you a new world , risen, Stubborn with beauty , out of the heart 's need .

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 .

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.

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.

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?