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

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

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

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

The deep spaces between stars , Fathomless as the cold shadow His mind cast.

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

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.