#WelshWriters
I have this that I must do One day: overdraw on my balance Of air, and breaking the surface Of water go down into the green Darkness to search for the door
The salmon lying in the depths of… Secretly as a thought in a dark mi… Is not so old as the owl of Cwm C… Who tells her sorrow nightly on th… The ousel singing in the woods of…
Who put that crease in your soul, Davies, ready this fine morning For the staid chapel, where the B… Sobers the sunlight? Who taught y… And scheme at once, your eyes turn…
I am, as you know, Walter Llywarc… Born in Wales of approved parents… Well goitred, round in the bum, Sure prey of the slow virus Bred in quarries of grey rain.
The furies are at home in the mirror; it is their address… Even the clearest water, if deep enough can drown. Never think to surprise them.
Like a painting it is set before o… But less brittle, ageless; these c… Are renewed daily with variations Of light and distance that no pain… Achieves or suggests. Then there…
Iago Prytherch his name, though,… Just an ordinary man of the bald… Who pens a few sheep in a gap of c… Docking mangels, chipping the gree… From the yellow bones with a half-…
Scarcely a street, too few houses To merit the title; just a way bet… The one tavern and the one shop That leads nowhere and fails at th… Of the short hill, eaten away
There are nights that are so still that I can hear the small owl call… far off and a fox barking miles away. It is then that I lie in the lean hours awake listening
I was vicar of large things in a small parish. Small-minded I will not say, there were depths in some of them I shrank back from, wells that the word “God”
There was Dai Puw. He was no goo… They put him in the fields to dock… And took the knife from him, when… At late evening with a grin Like the slash of a knife on his f…
It seems wrong that out of this bi… Black, bold, a suggestion of dark Places about it, there yet should… Such rich music, as though the not… Ore were changed to a rare metal
I praise you because you are artist and scientist in one. When I am somewhat fearful of your power, your ability to work miracles
Evans? Yes, many a time I came down his bare flight Of stairs into the gaunt kitchen With its wood fire, where crickets… Accompaniment to the black kettle’…
Shelley dreamed it. Now the dream… The props crumble; the familiar wa… Are stale with tears trodden under… The heart’s flower withers at the… Bury it then, in history’s sterile…