---

Dylan Thomas - Hold Hard The Ancient Minutes
Work rating: Low

Hold hard, these ancient minutes in the cuckoo`s month,
Under the lank, fourth folly on Glamorgan`s hill,
As the green blooms ride upward, to the drive of time;
Time, in a folly`s rider, like a county man
Over the vault of ridings with his hound at heel,
Drives forth my men, my children, from the hanging south.

Country, your sport is summer, and December`s pools
By crane and water-tower by the seedy trees
Lie this fifth month unstaked, and the birds have flown;
Holy hard, my country children in the world if tales,
The greenwood dying as the deer fall in their tracks,
The first and steepled season, to the summer`s game.

And now the horns of England, in the sound of shape,
Summon your snowy horsemen, and the four-stringed hill,
Over the sea-gut loudening, sets a rock alive;
Hurdles and guns and railings, as the boulders heave,
Crack like a spring in vice, bone breaking April,
Spill the lank folly`s hunter and the hard-held hope.

Down fall four padding weathers on the scarlet lands,
Stalking my children`s faces with a tail of blood,
Time, in a rider rising, from the harnessed valley;
Hold hard, my country darlings, for a hawk descends,
Golden Glamorgan straightens, to the falling birds.
Your sport is summer as the spring runs angrily.
Source
The script ran 0.001 seconds.