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

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.

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

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

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.

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

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.