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And I rose In rainy autumn And walked abroad in a shower of all my days.
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
Rose
Days
Fall
Rainy
Shower
Showers
Abroad
Autumn
Walked
More quotes by Dylan Thomas
[I'm]a freak user of words, not a poet.
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I sang in my chains like the sea
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Washington isn't a city, it's an abstraction.
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Hands have not tears to flow.
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And now, gentlemen, like your manners, I must leave you.
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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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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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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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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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I used to think that once a writer became a man of letters, if only for a half hour, he was done for. And here I am now, at the very moment of such an odious, though respectable, danger.
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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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The closer I move To death, one man through his sundered hulks, The louder the sun blooms And the tusked, ramshackling sea exults.
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The only sea I saw Was the seesaw sea With you riding on it. Lie down, lie easy. Let me shipwreck in your thighs.
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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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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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To begin at the beginning: It is a spring moonless night in the small town, starless and bible-black.
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And time cast forth my mortal creature To drift or drown upon the seas Acquainted with the salt adventure Of tides that never touch the shores. - I who was rich was made the richer By sipping at the the vine of days.
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After the first death, there is no other.
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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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A horrid alcoholic explosion scatters all my good intentions like bits of limbs and clothes over the doorsteps and into the saloon bars of the tawdriest pubs.
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