Quote

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.

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
Soul
Grief
Little
Cry
Sighs
Good
Grows
Tasted
Life
Forget
Forgets
Comes
Cries
Found
Knocked
Spirit
Sigh
Littles
Agony

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I used to think that once a writer became a man of letters, if only for a half hour, he was done for. And here I am now, at the very moment of such an odious, though respectable, danger.
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I've just had eighteen straight whiskies. I think that's the record.
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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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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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Hands have not tears to flow.
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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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A truly comic, invented world must live at the same time as the world we live in.
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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.
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Break in the sun till the sun breaks down, And death shall have no dominion.
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The photograph is married to the eye, Grafts on its bride one-sided skins of truth.
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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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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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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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Life always offers you a second chance. is called tomorrow.
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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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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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