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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.
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
Flesh
Wily
Blood
Maggots
Word
Slay
Body
Bone
Men
Rebel
Life
Skin
Skins
Bones
Maggot
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I've just had eighteen straight whiskies. I think that's the record.
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The photograph is married to the eye, Grafts on its bride one-sided skins of truth.
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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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[I'm]a freak user of words, not a poet.
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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 lovers be lost love shall not.
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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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Do not go gently into that good night but rage, rage against the dying of the light.
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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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And death shall have no dominion. Under the windings of the sea They lying long shall not die windily Twisting on racks when sinews give way, Strapped to a wheel, yet they shall not break Faith in their hands shall snap in two, And the unicorn evils run them through Split all ends up they shan't crack And death shall have no dominion.
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Too many of the artists of Wales spend too much time talking about the position of theartists of Wales.There is only one position for an artist anywhere: and that is, upright.
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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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Man’s wants remain unsatisfied till death. Then, when his soul is naked, is he one With the man in the wind, and the west moon, With the harmonious thunder of the sun
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Break in the sun till the sun breaks down, And death shall have no dominion.
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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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