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

Sunlight 's a thing that needs a window Before it enter a dark room. Windows don't happen." So two old poets, Hunched at their beer in the low haze Of an inn parlour, while the talk ran Noisily by them, glib with prose.

I have nowhere to go. The swift satellites show The clock of my whole being is slow.

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.

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.

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

I have known exile and a wild passion Of longing changing to a cold ache. King, beggar and fool , I have been all by turns, Knowing the body's sweetness, the mind 's treason ; Taliesin still, I show you a new world , risen, Stubborn with beauty , out of the heart 's need .