Dylan Thomas
Dylan Marlais Thomas was a Welsh poet who wrote exclusively in English. He was born on 27 October 1914 in the Uplands area of Swansea, Glamorgan, Wales. His father, David John Thomas, was an English master and his mother, was a dressmaker born in Swansea. Thomas had one sister, her name was Nancy. In November 1934, he wrote and published his first collection of poems. He married Caitlin Macnamara in 1937 and they had 3 children.
Later, he wrote many poems about the war. Dylan Thomas is a romantic poet. His best known poem is "And death shall have no dominion. Dylan Thomas drank a lot of alcohol. He died on November the 9th, 1953 in New york because he had a pneumonia. He died very young.
"WIKIPEDIA"
Later, he wrote many poems about the war. Dylan Thomas is a romantic poet. His best known poem is "And death shall have no dominion. Dylan Thomas drank a lot of alcohol. He died on November the 9th, 1953 in New york because he had a pneumonia. He died very young.
"WIKIPEDIA"
Link to other poems
Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night
Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light. 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. Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light. 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. Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light. And you, my father, there on that sad height, Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray. Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light. And Death Shall Have No Dominion And death shall have no dominion. Dead mean naked they shall be one With the man in the wind and the west moon; When their bones are picked clean and the clean bones gone, They shall have stars at elbow and foot; Though they go mad they shall be sane, Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again; Though lovers be lost love shall not; And death shall have no dominion. 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. And death shall have no dominion. No more may gulls cry at their ears Or waves break loud on the seashores; Where blew a flower may a flower no more Lift its head to the blows of the rain; Though they be mad and dead as nails, Heads of the characters hammer through daisies; Break in the sun till the sun breaks down, And death shall have no dominion |
In My Craft or Sullen Art
In my craft or sullen art Exercised in the still night When only the moon rages And the lovers lie abed With all their griefs in their arms I labour by singing light Not for ambition or bread Or the strut and trade of charms On the ivory stages But for the common wages Of their most secret heart. Not for the proud man apart From the raging moon I write On these spindrift pages Nor for the towering dead With their nightingales and psalms But for the lovers, their arms Round the griefs of the ages, Who pay no praise or wages Nor heed my craft or art A Grief Ago A grief ago, She who was who I hold, the fats and the flower, Or, water-lammed, from the scythe-sided thorn, Hell wind and sea, A stem cementing, wrestled up the tower, Rose maid and male, Or, master venus, through the paddler's bowl Sailed up the sun; Who is my grief, A chrysalis unwrinkling on the iron, Wrenched by my fingerman, the leaden bud Shot through the leaf, Was who was folded on the rod the aaron Road east to plague, The horn and ball of water on the frog Housed in the side. And she who lies, Like exodus a chapter from the garden, Brand of the lily's anger on her ring, Tugged through the days Her ropes of heritage, the wars of pardon, On field and sand The twelve triangles of the cherub wind Engraving going. Who then is she, She holding me? The people's sea drives on her, Drives out the father from the caesared camp; The dens of shape Shape all her whelps with the long voice of water, That she I have, The country-handed grave boxed into love, Rise before dark. The night is near, A nitric shape that leaps her, time and acid; I tell her this: before the suncock cast Her bone to fire, Let her inhale her dead, through seed and solid Draw in their seas, So cross her hand with their grave gipsy eyes, And close her fist |