Dylan Thomas Quotes - Page 4

Though wise men at their end know dark is right, Because their words had forked no lightning they Do not go gentle into that good night.

Washington isn't a city, it's an abstraction.

The condition of the world today is such that most writers feel they cannot truthfully be "comic" about it.

I sang in my chains like the sea

Dark is a way and light is a place, Heaven that never was Nor will be ever is always true "Poem on His Birthday

Rage, rage against the dying light

I have been told to reason by the heart, But heart, like head, leads helplessly; I have been told to reason by the pulse, And, when it quickens, alter the actions' pace

You just wait. I'll sin 'til I blow up!

I've just had eighteen straight whiskies. I think that's the record.

Sleeping as quiet as death, side by wrinkled side, toothless, salt and brown, like two old kippers in a box.

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.

The photograph is married to the eye, Grafts on its bride one-sided skins of truth.

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.

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.

I learnt the verbs of will, and had my secret; The code of night tapped on my tongue; What had been one was many sounding minded.

... Rebel against the flesh and bone, The word of the blood, the wily skin, And the maggot no man can slay.

Great is the hand that holds dominion over man by a scribbled name.

Don't be too harsh to these poems until they're typed. I always think typescript lends some sort of certainty: at least, if the things are bad then, they appear to be bad with conviction.

A truly comic, invented world must live at the same time as the world we live in.

Hands have not tears to flow.

Friend, my enemy, I call you out. You, you, you there with a bad thorn in your side. You there, my friend, with a winning air. Who pawned the lie on me when he looked brassly at my shyest secret. With my whole heart under your hammer. That though I loved him for his faults as much as for his good. My friend were an enemy upon stilts with his head in a cunning cloud. -Dylan Thomas

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way, Do not go gentle into that good night.

And I rose In rainy autumn And walked abroad in a shower of all my days.

Nothing grows in our garden, only washing. And babies.

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.