“Let all the poison that lurks in the mud, hatch out.”

“To Juan at the Winter Solstice There is one story and one story onlyThat will prove worth your telling,Whether as learned bard or gifted child;To it all lines or lesser gauds belongThat startle with their shiningSuch common stories as they stray into.Is it of trees you tell, their months and virtues,Or strange beasts that beset you,Of birds that croak at you the Triple will?Or of the Zodiac and how slow it turnsBelow the Boreal Crown,Prison to all true kings that ever reigned?Water to water, ark again to ark,From woman back to woman:So each new victim treads unfalteringlyThe never altered circuit of his fate,Bringing twelve peers as witnessBoth to his starry rise and starry fall.Or is it of the Virgin's silver beauty,All fish below the thighs?She in her left hand bears a leafy quince;When, with her right hand she crooks a finger, smiling,How many the King hold back?Royally then he barters life for love.Or of the undying snake from chaos hatched,Whose coils contain the ocean,Into whose chops with naked sword he springs,Then in black water, tangled by the reeds,Battles three days and nights,To be spewed up beside her scalloped shore?Much snow if falling, winds roar hollowly,The owl hoots from the elder,Fear in your heart cries to the loving-cup:Sorrow to sorrow as the sparks fly upward.The log groans and confesses:There is one story and one story only.Dwell on her graciousness, dwell on her smiling,Do not forget what flowersThe great boar trampled down in ivy time.Her brow was creamy as the crested wave,Her sea-blue eyes were wildBut nothing promised that is not performed.”

“Welsh Incident 'But that was nothing to what things came outFrom the sea-caves of Criccieth yonder.'What were they? Mermaids? dragons? ghosts?'Nothing at all of any things like that.'What were they, then?' 'All sorts of queer things,Things never seen or heard or written about,Very strange, un-Welsh, utterly peculiarThings. Oh, solid enough they seemed to touch,Had anyone dared it. Marvellous creation,All various shapes and sizes, and no sizes,All new, each perfectly unlike his neighbour,Though all came moving slowly out together.'Describe just one of them.' 'I am unable.'What were their colours?' 'Mostly nameless colours,Colours you'd like to see; but one was puceOr perhaps more like crimson, but not purplish.Some had no colour.' 'Tell me, had they legs?'Not a leg or foot among them that I saw.'But did these things come out in any order?'What o'clock was it? What was the day of the week?Who else was present? How was the weather?'I was coming to that. It was half-past threeOn Easter Tuesday last. The sun was shining.The Harlech Silver Band played Marchog JesuOn thrity-seven shimmering instrumentsCollecting for Caernarvon's (Fever) Hospital Fund.The populations of Pwllheli, Criccieth,Portmadoc, Borth, Tremadoc, Penrhyndeudraeth,Were all assembled. Criccieth's mayor addressed themFirst in good Welsh and then in fluent English,Twisting his fingers in his chain of office,Welcoming the things. They came out on the sand,Not keeping time to the band, moving seawardSilently at a snail's pace. But at lastThe most odd, indescribable thing of allWhich hardly one man there could see for wonderDid something recognizably a something.'Well, what?' 'It made a noise.' 'A frightening noise?'No, no.' 'A musical noise? A noise of scuffling?'No, but a very loud, respectable noise ---Like groaning to oneself on Sunday morningIn Chapel, close before the second psalm.'What did the mayor do?' 'I was coming to that.”

“Love without hope, as when the young bird-catcherSwept off his tall hat to the Squire's own daughter,So let the imprisoned larks escape and flySinging about her head, as she rode by.”

“You're all scum and you know it”

“The White GoddessAll saints revile her, and all sober menRuled by the God Apollo's golden mean -In scorn of which we sailed to find herIn distant regions likeliest to hold herWhom we desired above all things to know,Sister of the mirage and echo.It was a virtue not to stay,To go our headstrong and heroic waySeeking her out at the volcano's head,Among pack ice, or where the track had fadedBeyond the cavern of the seven sleepers:Whose broad high brow was white as any leper's,Whose eyes were blue, with rowan-berry lips,With hair curled honey-coloured to white hips.The sap of Spring in the young wood a-stirWill celebrate with green the Mother,And every song-bird shout awhile for her;But we are gifted, even in NovemberRawest of seasons, with so huge a senseOf her nakedly worn magnificenceWe forget cruelty and past betrayal,Heedless of where the next bright bolt may fall.”

“She tells her love while half asleep, In the dark hours, With half-words whispered low: As Earth stirs in her winter sleep And puts out grass and flowers Despite the snow, Despite the falling snow.”