To one kneeling down no word came,

Only the wind’s song, saddening the lips

Of the grave saints, rigid in glass;

Or the dry whisper of unseen wings,

Bats not angels, in the high roof.

Was he balked by silence? He kneeled long

And saw love in a dark crown

Of thorns blazing, and a winter tree

Golden with fruit of a man’s body.

R.S. Thomas (1913-2000), Song at the Year’s Turning, 1955.