R. S. Thomas - Iago Prytherch lyrics

Iago Prytherch, forgive my naming you. You are so far in your small fields From the world's eye, sharpening your blade On a cloud's edge, no one will tell you How I made fun of you, or pitied either Your long soliloquies, crouched at your slow And patient surgery under the faint November rays of the sun's lamp. Made fun of you? That was their graceless Accusation, because I took Your rags for theme, because I showed them Your thought's bareness; science and art, The mind's furniture, having no chance To install themselves, because of the great Draught of nature sweeping the skull. Fun? Pity? No word can describe My true feelings. I pa**ed and saw you Labouring there, your dark figure Marring the simple geometry Of the square fields with its gaunt question. My poems were made in its long shadow Falling coldly across the page.