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

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 .

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

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.

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

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

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