And one said, This man can sing;
Let’s listen to him. But the othe
Dirt on his mind, said, No, let’s
Queer him. And the first, being w
Consented. So the Thing came

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

It is calm.
It is as though
we lived in a garden
that had not yet arrived
at the knowledge of

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

England, what have you done to mak
My fathers used a stranger to my l
An offence to the ear, a shackle o
That would fit new thoughts to an
Answer me now. The workshop where

I emerge from the mind’s
cave into the worse darkness
outside, where things pass and
the Lord is in none of them.
I have heard the still, small voic

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

To live in Wales is to be conscio
At dusk of the spilled blood
That went into the making of the w
Dyeing the immaculate rivers
In all their courses.

All right, I was Welsh. Does it
I spoke a tongue that was passed o
To me in the place I happened to
A place huddled between grey walls
Of cloud for at least half the yea

Coming home was to that:
The white house in the cool grass
Membraned with shadow, the bright
Of stream that was its looking—gla
And smoke growing above the roof