Quote

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.

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
Others
Mouths
Curve
Laugh
Sleeves
Lies
Losses
Loss
Curves
Laughing
Betray
Eyes
Dry
Lamenting
Lying
Perceive
Sleeve
Eye
Mouth
Nude

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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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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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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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A truly comic, invented world must live at the same time as the world we live in.
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I sang in my chains like the sea
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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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After the first death, there is no other.
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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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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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Life always offers you a second chance. is called tomorrow.
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Oh, isn't life a terrible thing, thank God?
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[I'm]a freak user of words, not a poet.
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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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He who seeks rest finds boredom. He who seeks work finds rest.
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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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I have just had eighteen whiskeys in a row. I do believe that is a record.
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Rage, rage against the dying light
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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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Somebody's boring me. I think it's me.
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