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

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Rage, rage against the dying light
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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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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 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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This world is half the devil's and my own, Daft with the drug that's smoking in a girl and curling round the bud that forks her eye.
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Washington isn't a city, it's an abstraction.
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The photograph is married to the eye, Grafts on its bride one-sided skins of truth.
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I sang in my chains like the sea
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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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Hands have not tears to flow.
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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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Seventeen whiskeys. A record, I think.
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Especially when the October wind With frosty fingers punishes my hair, Caught by the crabbing sun I walk on fire And cast a shadow crab upon the land, By the sea's side, hearing the noise of birds, Hearing the raven cough in winter sticks, My busy heart who shudders as she talks Sheds the syllabic blood and drains her words.
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A good poem is a contribution to reality.
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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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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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I've just had eighteen straight whiskies. I think that's the record.
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Somebody's boring me. I think it's me.
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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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