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 .

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

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?

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

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.

They left no books , Memorial to their lonely thought In grey parishes: rather they wrote On men's hearts and in the minds Of young children sublime words Too soon forgotten. God in his time Or out of time will correct this.