A COUNTRY
At fifty he was still trying to deceive
Himself. He went out at night,
Imagining the dark country
Between the border and the coast
Was still Wales; the old language
Came to him on the windfs lips;
There were intimations of farms
Whose calendar was a green hill.
And yet under such skies the land
Had no more right to its name
Than a corpse had; self-given wounds
Wasted it. It lay like a bone
Thrown aside and of no use
For anything except shame to gnaw.