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

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

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 .

The deep spaces between stars , Fathomless as the cold shadow His mind cast.

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?

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 .

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