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

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[I'm]a freak user of words, not a poet.
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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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You just wait. I'll sin 'til I blow up!
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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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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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... an ugly, lovely town ... crawling, sprawling ... by the side of a long and splendid curving shore. This sea-town was my world.
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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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I have just had eighteen whiskeys in a row. I do believe that is a record.
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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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Washington isn't a city, it's an abstraction.
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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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Especially when the October wind With frosty fingers punishes my hair, Caught by the crabbing sun I walk on fire And cast a shadow crab upon the land, By the sea's side, hearing the noise of birds, Hearing the raven cough in winter sticks, My busy heart who shudders as she talks Sheds the syllabic blood and drains her words.
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I hold a beast, an angel, and a madman in me, and my enquiry is as to their working, and my problem is their subjugation and victory, down throw and upheaval, and my effort is their self-expression.
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After the first death, there is no other.
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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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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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And now, gentlemen, like your manners, I must leave you.
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Rhianon, he said, hold my hand, Rhianon. She did not hear him, but stood over his bed and fixed him with an unbroken sorrow. Hold my hand, he said, and then: why are your putting the sheet over my face?
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He who seeks rest finds boredom. He who seeks work finds rest.
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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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