#Welsh #XXCentury
When I was a child and the soft f… Quietly as snow on the bare bough… My father brought me trout from th… From whose chill lips the water so… Dull grew their eyes, the beautifu…
I was vicar of large things in a small parish. Small-minded I will not say, there were depths in some of them I shrank back from, wells that the word “God”
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
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
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
It is calm. It is as though we lived in a garden that had not yet arrived at the knowledge of
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…
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
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…
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
Evans? Yes, many a time I came down his bare flight Of stairs into the gaunt kitchen With its wood fire, where crickets… Accompaniment to the black kettle’…
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
I want you to know how it was, whether the Cross grinds into dust under men’s wheels or shines brigh… as a monument to a new era. There was a church and one man
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…
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
