Dic Aberdaron

#listen-container { display: inline-block; padding: 9px 15px; background: #10578E; cursor: pointer; transition: all 0.3s ease; border: 1px solid #1791ef; border-bottom: 1px solid #156caf; -webkit-box-shadow: 0 1px 0 #156caf; -moz-box-shadow: 0 1px 0 #156caf; box-shadow: 0 1px 0 #156caf; } #listen-container:hover { background: #2f9cf1; } #listen-container a { color: #fff; } .listen-container-svg { fill: #fff; height: 20px; width: 22px; margin-right: 5px; } #text-player { margin-right: 0; display: inline-block; font-size: 16px; top: -3px; position: relative; float: none; font-family: "Roboto","sans-serif"; font-size: 12px; text-transform: uppercase; letter-spacing: 0.1em; } Listen to this Poem Your browser does not support the audio element. Telling us so much it so much the more withholds. Who was he? The clothes a labourer's clothes: coarse trousers, torn jacket, a mole-skin cap. But that volume under the arm---a hedge-poet, a scholar by rushlight? We look closer: no soil in that eye, but light generated by a mind charging self at its own sources. Radiant soul, shrugging the type's ignorance off, he hastens towards us, to the future we inhabit and must welcome him to, but nervously, all too aware of the discrepancy with his expectations.