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Beginning with doom in the bulb, the spring unravels.
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
Bulbs
Doom
Spring
Beginning
Unravels
Bulb
More quotes by Dylan Thomas
Washington isn't a city, it's an abstraction.
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The photograph is married to the eye, Grafts on its bride one-sided skins of truth.
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Though lovers be lost love shall not.
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After the first death, there is no other.
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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 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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And from the first declension of the flesh I learnt man's tongue, to twist the shapes of thoughts Into the stony idiom of the brain.
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Life always offers you a second chance. is called tomorrow.
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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 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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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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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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The force that through the green fuse drives the flower Drives my green age that blasts the roots of trees Is my destroyer. And I am dumb to tell the crooked rose My youth is bend by the same wintry fever.
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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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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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Rage, rage against the dying light
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And I rose In rainy autumn And walked abroad in a shower of all my days.
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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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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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