Mention678040
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| so:text | All right, I was Welsh. Does it matter? I spoke a tongue that was passed on To me in the place I happened to be, A place huddled between grey walls Of cloud for at least half the year. My word for heaven was not yours. The word for hell had a sharp edge Put on it by the hand of the wind Honing, honing with a shrill sound Day and night. Nothing that Glyn Dwr Knew was armour against the rain's Missiles. What was descent from him? (en) |
| so:isPartOf | https://en.wikiquote.org/wiki/R._S._Thomas |
| so:description | Tares (1961) (en) |
| qkg:hasContext | qkg:Context334041 |
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Triples where Mention678040 is the object (without rdf:type)
| qkg:Quotation643029 | qkg:hasMention |
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