Dylan Thomas Quotes
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And death shall have no dominion.
Though lovers be lost love shall not.
Some beautiful things are more dazzling when they are broken.
Time held me green and dying though I sang in my chains like the sea.
The force that through the green fuse drives the flower drives my green age.
A good poem is a contribution to reality. The world is never the same once a good poem has been added to it.
I hold a beast, an angel, and a madman in me.
My tears are like the quiet drift of petals from some magic rose.
There is only one world left to go mad in, my love.
The only sea I saw Was the seesaw sea With you riding on it.
All mysteries are but stories in the end.
I fell in love, that is the only adventure.
I have never started a poem yet whose end I knew. Writing a poem is discovering.
These I have loved: White plates and cups, clean gleaming, Ringed with blue lines; and feathery, faery dust; Wet roofs, beneath the lamp-light; the strong crust Of friendly bread; and many tasting things.
The memories of childhood have no order, and no end.
The force that drove the water through the mill, drives my red blood.
The land of unicorns and roses always hid beyond my doorstep.
In the mustardseed sun, By full tilt river and switchback sea, Where the cormorants scud, In his house on stilts high among beaks . . .
Dylan Thomas Quotes part 2
Oh as I was young and easy in the mercy of his means, Time held me green and dying.
I dreamed my genesis In sweat of sleep, breaking Through the rotating shell, Stronghold of slow turnings.
To begin at the beginning: It is spring, moonless night in the small town, starless and bible-black.
The night above the dingle starry, Time let me hail and climb Golden in the heydays of his eyes.
I know I am going to love you without looking back.
To the one who knows only the road, the road is ever the home.
The green fuse drives the flower.
Love drives my green age.
When one burns one’s bridges, what a very nice fire it makes.
I, in my intricate image, stride on two levels, at once hero and housewife.
The hand that signed the paper felled a city.
When I was young, I used to think that behind every true poem must lie a miracle.
To be eaten by that mouth Might be salvation, my swan, my lord, my life.
Who were the bowmen? Filming the fresh blood’s fletchings as the whim hits, reaching the vital spots.
From where the rain fumbles the mouth of the tall fuchsia, and rat rushes a wet way on the short leg.
Is my destroyer.
Mad eyes to crucify to crucify to crucify.
Round me roared a bleak and unhearing ocean of time.
The rocks are waiting, brother, brother, waiting in the thin fire.
And the bullet sang, Tick-tock.
The flower is my fresh bid for glory.
When I lie cocked and serious on the mountain’s arm.
In black sleep I dream of you.
The skyline was a war!”
You are the dream, and the people, and the dreamer of the dream.
Time held me green and dying, though I sang in my chains like the sea.
The blood jet is poetry and there is no stopping it.
Only the sea moves, continues, goes on.
The wind is a whetstone for sharp minds.
There’s nothing like reading a poem aloud to experience its full power.
