Quote

And death shall have no dominion. Under the windings of the sea They lying long shall not die windily Twisting on racks when sinews give way, Strapped to a wheel, yet they shall not break Faith in their hands shall snap in two, And the unicorn evils run them through Split all ends up they shan't crack And death shall have no dominion.

Dylan Thomas

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Dylan Thomas
Age: 39 †
Born: 1914
Born: October 27
Died: 1953
Died: November 9
Author
Novelist
Playwright
Poet
Screenwriter
Writer
Abertawe
Dylan Marlais Thomas
Ends
Dies
Crack
Twisting
Give
Lying
Splits
Racks
Faith
Wheel
Snap
Giving
Evil
Cracks
Unicorn
Long
Death
Wheels
Snaps
Windings
Way
Running
Sea
Dominion
Shan
Hands
Shall
Split
Sinews
Two
Break
Evils
Strapped

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Youth calls to age across the tired years: 'What have you found,' he cries, 'what have you sought? 'What have you found,' age answers through his tears, 'What have you sought.
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Let the dry eyes perceive Others betray the lamenting lies of their losses By the curve of the nude mouth or the laugh up the sleeve.
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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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And I rose In rainy autumn And walked abroad in a shower of all my days.
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To begin at the beginning: It is a spring moonless night in the small town, starless and bible-black.
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In the beginning was the word, the word That from the solid bases of the light Abstracted all the letters of the void.
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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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Reading one's own poems aloud is letting the cat out of the bag. You may have always suspected bits of a poem to be overweighted, overviolent, or daft, and then, suddenly, with the poet's tongue around them, your suspicion is made certain.
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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'm]a freak user of words, not a poet.
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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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You wouldn't think such a place as San Francisco could exist. The wonderful sunlight there, the hills, the great bridges, the Pacific at your shoes. Beautiful Chinatown. Every race in the world. The sardine fleets sailing out. The little cable-cars whizzing down The City hills. And all the people are open and friendly.
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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.
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One Christmas was so much like another, in those years around the sea-town corner now and out of all sound except the distant speaking of the voices I sometimes hear a moment before sleep, that I can never remember whether it snowed for six days and six nights when I was twelve or whether it snowed for twelve days and twelve nights when I was six.
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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 now, gentlemen, like your manners, I must leave you.
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Poetry is the rhythmic, inevitably narrative, movement from an overclothed blindness to a naked vision that depends in its intensity on the strength of the labour put into the creation of the poetry.
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When logics die, The secret of the soil grows through the eye, And blood jumps in the sun Above the waste allotments the dawn halts.
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Somebody's boring me. I think it's me.
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I've just had eighteen straight whiskies. I think that's the record.
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