#Welsh
A Letter To My Aunt Discussing… To you, my aunt, who would explore The literary Chankley Bore, The paths are hard, for you are no… A literary Hottentot
A bunch of the boys were whooping… The kid that handles the music—box… Back of the bar, in a solo game, s… And watching his luck was his ligh… When out of the night, which was f…
It is the sinners’ dust-tongued be… When, with his torch and hourglass… His beast heel cleft in a sandal, Time marks a black aisle kindle fr… Grief with dishevelled hands tear…
Foster the light nor veil the mans… Nor weather winds that blow not do… But strip the twelve-winded marrow… Master the night nor serve the sno… That shapes each bushy item of the…
A saint about to fall, The stained flats of heaven hit an… To the kissed kite hems of his sha… On the last street wave praised The unwinding, song by rock,
How soon the servant sun, (Sir morrow mark), Can time unriddle, and the cupboar… (Fog has a bone He’ll trumpet into meat),
Ears in the turrets hear Hands grumble on the door, Eyes in the gables see The fingers at the locks. Shall I unbolt or stay
'If my head hurt a hair’s foot Pack back the downed bone. If the… Bump on a spout let the bubbles ju… Sooner drop with the worm of the r… Than bully ill love in the clouted…
Over Sir John’s hill, The hawk on fire hangs still; In a hoisted cloud, at drop of dus… And gallows, up the rays of his ey… And the shrill child’s play
One Christmas was so much like another, in those years around the sea-town corner now and out of all sound except the distant speaking of the voices I sometimes hear a moment before sle...
From love’s first fever to her pla… And to the hollow minute of the wo… From the unfolding to the scissore… The time for breast and the green… When no mouth stirred about the ha…
There are strange things done in t… By the men who moil for gold; The Arctic trails have their secr… That would make your blood run col… The Northern Lights have seen que…
On almost the incendiary eve Of several near deaths, When one at the great least of you… And always known must leave Lions and fires of his flying brea…
Myselves The grievers Grieve Among the street burned to tireles… A child of a few hours
I dreamed my genesis in sweat of s… Through the rotating shell, strong As motor muscle on the drill, driv… Through vision and the girdered ne… From limbs that had the measure of…
