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

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.

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

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

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 .

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

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 .