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

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

In Wales there are jewels
To gather, but with the eye
Only. A hill lights up
Suddenly; a field trembles
With colour and goes out

And this was a civilization
That came to nothing—he spurned wi
The slave—coloured dust. We breat
Thankfully, oxygen to our culture.
Somebody found a curved bone

So beautiful—God himself quailed
at her approach: the long body cur
like the horizon. Why had he made
her so? How would it be, she said,
leaning towards him, if instead of

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

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

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

It was beautiful as God
must be beautiful: glacial
eyes that had looked on
violence and come to terms
with it; a body too huge

They see you as they see you,
A poor farmer with no name,
Ploughing cloudward, sowing the wi
With squalls of gulls at the day’s
To me you are Prytherch, the man