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…

Men who have hardly uncurled from their posture in the womb. Naked. Heads bowed, not in prayer, but in contemplation of the earth they came from,

With her fingers she turns paint into flowers, with her body flowers into a remembrance of herself. She is at work always, mending the garment

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

Looking upon this tree with its qu… Of holding the earth, a leveret, i… Or marking the texture of its livi… A grey sea wrinkled by the winds o… I understand whence this man’s bod…

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

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

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

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

All my life I was face to face with her, at meal—times, by the fire, even in the ultimate intimacies

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