The Poem:

Sweet-tempered, pestering
young man of Oxford
juggling with ghazals,
tercets, haikus, tankas,
not to mention willanelles,
terzanelles and rondelets;
conversant with the phonetic
kinships of rhyme, assonance
and consonance; the four
nuances of stress, the three
junctions; forget now
the skeltonic couplet,
the heroic couplet, the split
couplet, the poulter's measure;
speak not of englyn
penfyr, englyn milwr;
but westward hasten
to the rising, lonely ground
between the evening rivers,
the alder-gazing rivers,
Mawddach and Dysynni.

Let it be dark when, alone,
you climb the waful mountain
so that you can count the stars.
Ignore the giant shufflings
behind you - put out that torch! -
the far intermittent cries
of the nocturnal brids
- if birds they are -
their small screams of torture.
Instead, scholar as you are,
remark the old proverb
how the one who ascends
Cadair Idris at night
comes bak in dawn's light
lately mad or a great poet.
Mwanwhile, I'll wait here
in this dull room of unrine-
flask, weighing-machine
examination-couch, X-ray screen,
for your return (triumphant
or bizarre) patiently.