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.

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 .

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

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

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

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