Within this world, there waits a patient wood
that longs for recreation by your touch
to fall, be sold, be sawn, and seen as good.
Its oaks have pinned their hopes to suffer such;
its maples dream as much as they are able,
and every aspen whispers to itself:
they pine for you to bring them to the table,
or give them self-assurance as a shelf.
   Then there's yourself.  The elements essential
   within the raw material of you
   are scintillating stock, with star potential;
   still, steadily you work, and make them new.
And beauty's born, no matter where it lies,
for all the world reflects behind your eyes.

When once I stop and take account of these
that God has granted me upon the earth,
the loves, the friends, the work, that charm and please
these things I count inestimable worth;
when once I stop, I learn that I am rich
beyond the dreams of emperors and kings
and light is real, and real these riches which
exceed the worth of all material things...
when thus I stop, I cannot understand
when few and feeble sunbeams cannot find
their way into that drab and dreary land,
the darkness of the middle of my mind.
yet darkness cannot take away my joy,
for night can only hide, and not destroy.

My Welsh is just not good enough for verse.
My dw i'n hoffi coffi's lacking fizz;
cynghanedd is pedestrian or worse;
I wish it wasn't so, but there it is.
My struggle's still to learn, as yours to teach,
and so my englyn's still in English sung,
and aching awdls cower out of reach,
and English shows the thinness of the tongue.
But here's my goal: some month the Gorsedd meet
so many miles ahead— I may be there
to share my bitter words, my verses sweet,
at common table. Never mind the chair.
But that's a dream, and not what's on the card,
and much as I might dream— for now— I'm barred.

The sea lies solid under ice,
The blizzard seldom stops;
The glögi's running freely
In friendly coffee-shops;
The trams still run and life goes on
And still I can't remember
Why no-one ever calls a song
"Helsinki in November".

Here from the hilltop down towards the dell
I'll wander till this evening, I don't care.
An afternoon all fertile with the spell
Still calling me: be still and drink the air.
And so I'll pause, and ponder as I hike,
I'll take my time before the valley floor,
And meditate, and maybe, if I like,
Climb back again and walk the path once more.
  Full twenty years I've walked this hillside trail,
  And every time it makes itself anew;
  Unveiling as I head towards the vale,
  A flower unseen, an unexpected view...
Again I lose my footing with a scream,
Fall forty feet, and drown beneath the stream.

Before the sun begins to set
we'll share another cup of tea;
the kettle's never settled yet
before the sun begins to set,
and every morning since we met
you've shared your joyful life with me;
before the sun begins to set
we'll share another cup of tea.

Asleep in your bed
with the smoke of your hair
where dreams lie unsaid
asleep in your bed;
the fires in your head
who create and prepare
asleep in your bed
with the smoke of your hair.

The smoke of your hair
in your sleep, in your bed
is strewn through the air.
The smoke of your hair
from the fires within, where
new worlds will be bred:
the smoke of your hair
in your sleep, in your bed.