Quote

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.

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
Eye
Soil
Nature
Logic
Sun
Allotments
Waste
Halts
Blood
Jumps
Grows
Halt
Secret
Vitality
Dies
Dawn

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And now, gentlemen, like your manners, I must leave you.
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If you want a definition of poetry, say: Poetry is what makes me laugh or cry or yawn, what makes my toenails twinkle, what makes me want to do this or that or nothing and let it go at that.
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Life always offers you a second chance. is called tomorrow.
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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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Somebody's boring me. I think it's me.
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A good poem is a contribution to reality.
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Rage, rage against the dying light
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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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[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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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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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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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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A truly comic, invented world must live at the same time as the world we live in.
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Hands have not tears to flow.
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And I rose In rainy autumn And walked abroad in a shower of all my days.
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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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