The Moor, R.S. Thomas

The Moor By R. S. Thomas (1913 - 2000) It was like a church to me. I entered it on soft foot, Breath held like a cap in the hand. It was quiet. What God was there made himself felt, Not listened to, in clean colours That brought a moistening of the eye, In movement of the wind over grass. There were no prayers said. But stillness Of the heart's passions -- that was praise Enough; and the mind's cession Of its kingdom. I walked on, Simple and poor, while the air crumbled And broke on me generously as bread