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 .

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

Natural, hell! What was it Chaucer Said once about the long toil that goes like blood to the poems making? Leave it to nature and the verse sprawls, Limp as bindweed, if it break at all Life's iron crust Man, you must sweat And rhyme your guts taut, if you'd build Your verse a ladder.

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 .

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

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?

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