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The photograph is married to the eye, Grafts on its bride one-sided skins of truth.

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
Bride
Brides
Skins
Photograph
Married
Eye
Truth
Grafts
Sided

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Seventeen whiskeys. A record, I think.
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[I'm]a freak user of words, not a poet.
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The moment of a miracle is unending lightning.
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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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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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This poem has been called obscure. I refuse to believe that it is obscurer than pity, violence, or suffering. But being a poem, not a lifetime, it is more compressed.
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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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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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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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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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A springful of larks in a rolling Cloud and the roadside bushes brimming with whistling Blackbirds and the sun of October Summery On the hill's shoulder.
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Rage, rage against the dying 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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To begin at the beginning: It is a spring moonless night in the small town, starless and bible-black.
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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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He who seeks rest finds boredom. He who seeks work finds rest.
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Washington isn't a city, it's an abstraction.
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Break in the sun till the sun breaks down, And death shall have no dominion.
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And now, gentlemen, like your manners, I must leave you.
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Hands have not tears to flow.
Dylan Thomas