Poeticous Logo
fr
English Español Français Italiano
R. S. Thomas

R. S. Thomas

The Dance

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
Of an old man whom time
Crucifies. Take my hand
A moment in the dance,
Ignoring its sly pressure,
The dry rut of age,
And lead me under the boughs
Of innocence. Let me smell
My youth again in your hair.

#Welsh #XXCentury #Dance

1
2
Vous avez aimé cette lecture ? Offrez-nous un café !.
Votre aide nous permet d'exister.
Préféré par...
Autres oeuvres par R. S. Thomas...
Wooded Path in Autumn, by H. A. Brendekilde
A Day in Autumn

It will not always be like this, The air windless, a few last Leaves adding their decoration To the trees’ shoulders, braiding… Of the boughs with gold; a bird pr…
 1
And You?

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
Chapel Deacon

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…
The Way of It

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
The Ancients of the World

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…
To a Young Poet

For the first twenty years you are… Bodily that is: as a poet, of cour… You are not born yet. It’s the ne… You cut your teeth on to emerge sm… For your brash courtship of the mu…
Farm Wife

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
Death of a Poet

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…
Christ Crucified, by Diego Velázquez
The Coming

And God held in his hand A small globe. Look he said. The son looked. Far off, As through water, he saw A scorched land of fierce
 2
The Cat and the Sea

It is a matter of a black cat On a bare cliff top in March Whose eyes anticipate The gorse petals; The formal equation of
Together

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

The poem in the rock and The poem in the mind Are not one. It was in dying I tried to make them so.
Reflections

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.
 6
 19
Thirteen Blackbirds Look at a Man

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

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
 1
 1



Haut