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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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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I've just had eighteen straight whiskies. I think that's the record.
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Break in the sun till the sun breaks down, 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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To begin at the beginning: It is a spring moonless night in the small town, starless and bible-black.
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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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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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Whatever talents I possess may suddenly diminish or suddenly increase. I can with ease become an ordinary fool. I may be one now. But it doesn't do to upset one's own vanity.
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And time cast forth my mortal creature To drift or drown upon the seas Acquainted with the salt adventure Of tides that never touch the shores. - I who was rich was made the richer By sipping at the the vine of days.
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The moment of a miracle is unending lightning.
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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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Somebody's boring me. I think it's me.
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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 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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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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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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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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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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And now, gentlemen, like your manners, I must leave you.
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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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