Quote

The force that through the green fuse drives the flower Drives my green age that blasts the roots of trees Is my destroyer. And I am dumb to tell the crooked rose My youth is bend by the same wintry fever.

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
Tell
Green
Crooked
Life
Flower
Blast
Wintry
Birth
Fever
Blasts
Youth
Drives
Destroyer
Growth
Dumb
Fuse
Tree
Trees
Destroyers
Age
Rose
Rebirth
Force
Roots
Bend

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Though lovers be lost love shall not.
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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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The moment of a miracle is unending lightning.
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... an ugly, lovely town ... crawling, sprawling ... by the side of a long and splendid curving shore. This sea-town was my world.
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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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Oh, isn't life a terrible thing, thank God?
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Somebody's boring me. I think it's me.
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He who seeks rest finds boredom. He who seeks work finds rest.
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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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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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The photograph is married to the eye, Grafts on its bride one-sided skins of truth.
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