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

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 .

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

I have been Merlin wandering in the woods Of a far country, where the winds waken Unnatural voices , my mind broken By a sudden acquaintance with man's rage.

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

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