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I think, that if I touched the earth, It would crumble It is so sad and beautiful, So tremulously like a dream.
Dylan Thomas
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Dylan Thomas
Age: 39 †
Born: 1914
Born: October 27
Died: 1953
Died: November 9
Author
Novelist
Playwright
Poet
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Abertawe
Dylan Marlais Thomas
Thinking
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Crumble
Touched
Beautiful
Dream
Earth
Would
Think
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My education was the liberty I had to read indiscriminately and all the time, with my eyes hanging out.
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Break in the sun till the sun breaks down, And death shall have no dominion.
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Beginning with doom in the bulb, the spring unravels.
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Too many of the artists of Wales spend too much time talking about the position of theartists of Wales.There is only one position for an artist anywhere: and that is, upright.
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A springful of larks in a rolling Cloud and the roadside bushes brimming with whistling Blackbirds and the sun of October Summery On the hill's shoulder.
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Do not go gently into that good night but rage, rage against the dying of the light.
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I have just had eighteen whiskeys in a row. I do believe that is a record.
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Though lovers be lost love shall not.
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Families, like countries, take their prophets unkindly, but a verse-speaker in the house is dishonor to be hooted.
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... Rebel against the flesh and bone, The word of the blood, the wily skin, And the maggot no man can slay.
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Hands have not tears to flow.
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Dark is a way and light is a place, Heaven that never was Nor will be ever is always true Poem on His Birthday
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And from the first declension of the flesh I learnt man's tongue, to twist the shapes of thoughts Into the stony idiom of the brain.
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Somebody's boring me. I think it's me.
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Rhianon, he said, hold my hand, Rhianon. She did not hear him, but stood over his bed and fixed him with an unbroken sorrow. Hold my hand, he said, and then: why are your putting the sheet over my face?
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Seventeen whiskeys. A record, I think.
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I went on all over the States, ranting poems to enthusiastic audiences that, the week before, had been equally enthusiastic about lectures on Railway Development or the Modern Turkish Essay.
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My tears are like the quiet drift of petals from some magic rose and all my grief flows from the rift of unremembered skies and snows. I think that if I touched the earth, it would crumble it is so sad and beautiful, so tremulously like a dream.
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Out of the sighs a little comes, But not of grief, for I have knocked down that Before the agony the spirit grows, Forgets, and cries A little comes, is tasted and found good.
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Though they go mad they shall be sane, though they sink through the sea they shall rise again though lovers be lost love shall not and death shall have no dominion.
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