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..

The old men ask for more time; the young waste it. And the philosopher simply smiles, knowing there is none there..

I'm obviously not orthodox, I don't know how many real poets have ever been orthodox..

Ah, what balance is needed at the edges of such an abyss. I am left alone on the surface of a turning planet. What to do but, like Michelangelo's Ada….

The silence holds with its gloved hand the wild hawk of the mind..

Art is recuperation from time. I lie back convalescing upon the prospect of a harvest already at hand..

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 bi….

The nearest we approach God ...is as creative beings. The poet, by echoing the primary imagination, recreates. Through his work he forces those who r….

Man is a dream about a shadow. But when some splendour falls upon him from God, a glory comes to him and his life is sweet..

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….

Natural, hell! What was it Chaucer Said once about the long toil that goes like blood to the poems making? Leave it to nature and the verse sprawls, ….

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?.

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 ….

A recurring ideal, I find, is that of simplicity. At times there comes the desire to write with great precision and clarity, words so simple and movi….

I am left alone on the surface of a turning planet..

Now the power of the imagination is a unifying power, hence the force of metaphor; and the poet is the supreme manipulator of metaphor... the world n….

I have been all men known to history, Wondering at the world and at time passing; I have seen evil, and the light blessing Innocent love under a spri….

Deliver me from the long drought of the mind. Let leaves from the deciduous Cross fall on us, washing us clean, turning our autumn to gold by the aff….

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

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….

The darkness is the deepening shadow of your presence; the silence a process in the metabolism of the being of love..