I had looked forward to old age as a time of quietness, a time to draw my horizons about me, to watch memories ripening in the sunlight of a walled garden. But there is the void over my head and the distance within that the tireless signals come from. And astronaut on impossible journeys to the far side of the self I return with messages I cannot decipher.
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. - R. S. Thomas
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.
- R. S. Thomas
The silence holds with its gloved hand the wild hawk of the mind. - R. S. Thomas
The silence holds with its gloved hand the wild hawk of the mind.
I am a man now. Pass your hand over my brow. You can feel the place where the brains grow. - R. S. Thomas
I am a man now. Pass your hand over my brow. You can feel the place where the brains grow.
The meaning is in the waiting. - R. S. Thomas
The meaning is in the waiting.
Poetry is that / which arrives at the intellect / by way of the heart. - R. S. Thomas
Poetry is that / which arrives at the intellect / by way of the heart.
I'm obviously not orthodox, I don't know how many real poets have ever been orthodox. - R. S. Thomas
I'm obviously not orthodox, I don't know how many real poets have ever been orthodox.
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… - R. S. Thomas
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…
The old men ask for more time; the young waste it. And the philosopher simply smiles, knowing there is none there. - R. S. Thomas
The old men ask for more time; the young waste it. And the philosopher simply smiles, knowing there is none there.
Art is recuperation from time. I lie back convalescing upon the prospect of a harvest already at hand. - R. S. Thomas
Art is recuperation from time. I lie back convalescing upon the prospect of a harvest already at hand.
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