I praise you because you are artist and scientist in one. When I am somewhat fearful of your power, your ability to work miracles

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

Hers is the clean apron, good for… Or lamp to embroider, as we talk s… In the long kitchen, while the whi… Turns to pastry in the great oven, Sweetly and surely as hay making

We met under a shower of bird-notes. Fifty years passed, love’s moment

We were a people taut for war; the… Were no harder, the thin grass Clothed them more warmly than the… Shirts our small bones. We fought, and were always in retr…

Moments of great calm, Kneeling before an altar Of wood in a stone church In summer, waiting for the God To speak; the air a staircase

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

It is this great absence that is like a presence, that comp… me to address it without hope of a reply. It is a room I enter from which someone has just

Davies thought life was long; there was a sameness in the song. Pugh thought it all too brief, the fruit ripe before the leaf turned. How is it with you

Laid now on his smooth bed For the last time, watching dully Through heavy eyelids the day’s co… Widow the sky, what can he say Worthy of record, the books all op…

Beasts rearing from green slime— an illiterate country, unable to r… its own name. Stones moved into po… on the hills’ sides; snakes laid t… in their cold shadow. The earth su…

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’…

When I was a child and the soft f… Quietly as snow on the bare bough… My father brought me trout from th… From whose chill lips the water so… Dull grew their eyes, the beautifu…

She is young. Have I the right Even to name her? Child, It is not love I offer Your quick limbs, your eyes; Only the barren homage

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