''A worm tells summer better than the clock,Dylan Thomas (1914-1953), Welsh poet. "Here in this spring."
The slug's a living calendar of days;
What shall it tell me if a timeless insect
Says the world wears away?''
''It's thatthe thought of the few, simple things we want and the knowledge that we're going to get them in spite of you know Who and His spites and tempersthat keeps us living I think.''Dylan Thomas (1914-1953), Welsh poet. Letter, late 1936, to Caitlin, later Thomas's wife. The Collected Letters of Dylan Thomas (1985).
''Hold hard, my county darlings, for a hawk descends,Dylan Thomas (1914-1953), Welsh poet. "Hold hard, these ancient minutes in the cuckoo's month."
Golden Glamorgan straightens, to the falling birds.
Your sport is summer as the spring runs angrily.''
''I know we're not saints or virgins or lunatics; we know all the lust and lavatory jokes, and most of the dirty people; we can catch buses and count our change and cross the roads and talk real sentences. But our innocence goes awfully deep, and our discreditable secret is that we don't know anything at all, and our horrid inner secret is that we don't care that we don't.''Dylan Thomas (1914-1953), Welsh poet. Letter, 1936, to Caitlin, later his wife. The Collected Letters of Dylan Thomas (1985).
''Time, in a folly's rider, like a county manDylan Thomas (1914-1953), Welsh poet. "Hold hard, these ancient minutes in the cuckoo's month."
Over the vault of ridings with his hound at heel,
Drives forth my men, my children from the hanging south.''
''And the child not caring to whom he climbs his prayerDylan Thomas (1914-1953), Welsh poet. "The Conversation of Prayer."
Shall drown in a grief as deep as his made grave,
And mark the dark eyed wave, through the eyes of sleep,
Dragging him up the stairs to one who lies dead.''
''NoDylan Thomas (1914-1953), Welsh poet. "Holy Spring."
Praise that the spring time is all
Gabriel and radiant shrubbery as the morning grows joyful''
''The conversation of prayers about to be saidDylan Thomas (1914-1953), Welsh poet. "The Conversation of Prayer."
Turns on the quick and the dead....''
''My arising prodigalDylan Thomas (1914-1953), Welsh poet. "Holy Spring."
Sun the father his quiver full of the infants of pure fire ...''
''And I am dumb to tell the lover's tombDylan Thomas (1914-1953), Welsh poet. The Force That through the Green Fuse Drives the Flower (l. 21-22). . . The Collected Poems of Dylan Thomas, 1934-1952 (1953, rev. ed. 1956) New Directions.
How at my sheet goes the same crooked worm.''
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Foster the Light
Foster the light nor veil the manshaped moon,
Nor weather winds that blow not down the bone,
But strip the twelve-winded marrow from his circle;
Master the night nor serve the snowman's brain
That shapes each bushy item of the air
Into a polestar pointed on an icicle.
Murmur of spring nor crush the cockerel's eggs,
Nor hammer back a season in the figs,