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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.

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

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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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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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And now, gentlemen, like your manners, I must leave you.
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Somebody's boring me. I think it's me.
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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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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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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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Life always offers you a second chance. is called tomorrow.
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One Christmas was so much like another, in those years around the sea-town corner now and out of all sound except the distant speaking of the voices I sometimes hear a moment before sleep, that I can never remember whether it snowed for six days and six nights when I was twelve or whether it snowed for twelve days and twelve nights when I was six.
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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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After the first death, there is no other.
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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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To begin at the beginning: It is a spring moonless night in the small town, starless and bible-black.
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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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You just wait. I'll sin 'til I blow up!
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Beginning with doom in the bulb, the spring unravels.
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Hands have not tears to flow.
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And I rose In rainy autumn And walked abroad in a shower of all my days.
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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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The photograph is married to the eye, Grafts on its bride one-sided skins of truth.
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