In the still of a night coming down, Winds catching the gravel, I wander where soft waters flow, Where the moon drops and grow, Back to the green of an open hill,
To where strange flowers bloom.

The echoes of the deep, and ancient sea Dance along the shore, All is rich in the first wild breath, As I hear the voice, old and wise, Come down upon the weary fields of gold,
Dylan’s song begins, soft and true.

• Dylan Thomas