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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?

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
Putting
Sorrow
Hold
Unbroken
Hear
Sheet
Hand
Sheets
Face
Stood
Faces
Fixed
Hands
Bed

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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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Somebody's boring me. I think it's me.
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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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The moment of a miracle is unending lightning.
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Hands have not tears to flow.
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These poems, with all their crudities, doubts, and confusions, are written for the love of Man and in praise of God, and I'd be a damn' fool if they weren't.
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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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Though lovers be lost love shall not.
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A truly comic, invented world must live at the same time as the world we live in.
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And now, gentlemen, like your manners, I must leave you.
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Oh, isn't life a terrible thing, thank God?
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I hold a beast, an angel, and a madman in me, and my enquiry is as to their working, and my problem is their subjugation and victory, down throw and upheaval, and my effort is their self-expression.
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I sang in my chains like the sea
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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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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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It snowed last year too: I made a snowman and my brother knocked it down and I knocked my brother down and then we had tea.
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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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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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The photograph is married to the eye, Grafts on its bride one-sided skins of truth.
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