Chapter 65

‘Well, we mun grin and abide and see what comes,’ he observed, as he drove his plough through the reeking wet soil under the low brooding clouds that always haunt Dysgwlfas in the dark months. And while the silver ploughshare cut into the stiff soil, his spirit drove its way into the heart of the moor and left on its stern beauty the long, shining, fruitful furrows of the imagination. He wrapped himself in the moor, and he attained a beauty he could not have won in a town. Little by little he made his poem—rugged, …