I have taxed your ignorance of rhyme and sonnet,
     Your want of deference to the painter's skill,
     But I know, as I listen, that your speech has in it
     The source of all poetry, clear as a rill
     Bubbling from your lips; and what brushwork could equal
     The artistry of your dwelling on the bare hill?

     You will forgive, then, my initial hatred,
     My first intolerance of your uncouth ways,
     You who are indifferent to all that I can offer,
     Caring not whether I blame or praise.

     With your pigs and your sheep and your sons
        and holly-cheeked daughters
     You will still continue to unwind your days
     In a crude tapestry under the jealous heavens
     To affront, bewilder, and yet compel my gaze.

From R. S. Thomas's "A Priest to His People"