R.S. Thomas

“Children's SongWe live in our own world,A world that is too smallFor you to stoop and enterEven on hands and knees,The adult subterfuge.And though you probe and pryWith analytic eye,And eavesdrop all our talkWith an amused look,You cannot find the centreWhere we dance, where we play,Where life is still asleepUnder the closed flower,Under the smooth shellOf eggs in the cupped nestThat mock the faded blueOf your remoter heaven.”

“You have to imaginea waiting that is not impatientbecause it is timeless.”

“To all light thingsI compared her: toa snowflake, a feather”