Quote

The closer I move To death, one man through his sundered hulks, The louder the sun blooms And the tusked, ramshackling sea exults.

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
Move
Sundered
Moving
Blooms
Death
Louder
Men
Closer
Aging
Sea
Sun
Dying

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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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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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Life always offers you a second chance. is called tomorrow.
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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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After the first death, there is no other.
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Break in the sun till the sun breaks down, And death shall have no dominion.
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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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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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A good poem is a contribution to reality.
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Washington isn't a city, it's an abstraction.
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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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Families, like countries, take their prophets unkindly, but a verse-speaker in the house is dishonor to be hooted.
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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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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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Do not go gently into that good night but rage, rage against the dying of the light.
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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 truly comic, invented world must live at the same time as the world we live in.
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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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... Rebel against the flesh and bone, The word of the blood, the wily skin, And the maggot no man can slay.
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