An alcoholic is someone you don't like who drinks just as much as you do.
Why do men think you can pick love up and re-light it like a candle? Women know when love is over.
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.
After the first death, there is no other.
I went on all over the States, ranting poems to enthusiastic audiences that, the week before, had been equally enthusiastic about lectures on Railway Development or the Modern Turkish Essay.
All the Christmases roll down toward the two-tongued sea, like a cold and headlong moon bundling down the sky that was our street; and they stop at the rim of the ice-edged, fish-freezing waves, and I plunge my hands in the snow and bring out whatever I can find.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
I hold a beast, an angel, and a madman in me, and my enquiry is as to their working, and my problem is their subjugation and victory, down throw and upheaval, and my effort is their self-expression.
The only surprising thing about miracles, however small, is that they sometimes happen.
Somebody's boring me. I think it's me.
It was snowing. It was always snowing at Christmas. December, in my memory, is white as Lapland, though there were no reindeers. But there were cats.
One: I am a Welshman; two: I am a drunkard; three: I am a lover of the human race, especially of women.
I've just had eighteen straight whiskies. I think that's the record.
Dylan talked copiously, then stopped. 'Somebody's boring me,' he said, 'I think it's me.'
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.
The first poems I knew were nursery rhymes, and before I could read them for myself, I had come to love just the words of them, the words alone.
I have never sat down and studied the Bible, never consciously echoed its language, and am, in reality, as ignorant of it as most brought-up Christians. All of the Bible that I use in my work is remembered from childhood and is the common property of all who were brought up in English-speaking communities.
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.
Do not go gentle into that good night but rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Oh as I was young and easy in the mercy of his means, Time held me green and dying Though I sang in my chains like the sea.
No honest writer today can possibly avoid being influenced by Freud through his pioneering work into the Unconscious and by the influence of those discoveries on the scientific, philosophic, and artistic work of his contemporaries: but not, by any means, necessarily through Freud's own writing.
And the whole pain flows open and I die.
Teach me the love that is evergreen after the fall leaved/Grave.
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.
Whatever talents I possess may suddenly diminish or suddenly increase. I can with ease become an ordinary fool. I may be one now. But it doesn't do to upset one's own vanity.
The only sea I saw Was the seesaw sea With you riding on it. Lie down, lie easy. Let me shipwreck in your thighs.
I sang in my chains like the sea.
The land of my fathers. My fathers can have it.
Every device there is in language is there to be used, if you will. Poets have got to enjoy themselves sometimes, and the twistings and convolutions of words, the inventions and contrivances, are all part of the joy that is part of the painful, voluntary work.
I believe in New Yorkers. Whether they've ever questioned the dream in which they live, I wouldn't know, because I won't ever dare ask that question.
Poetry is not the most important thing in life... I'd much rather lie in a hot bath reading Agatha Christie and sucking sweets.
The ball I threw while playing in the park has not yet reached the ground.
And books which told me everything about the wasp, except why.
Wales: The land of my fathers. My fathers can have it!
But time has set its maggot on their track.
Mr. Kipling stands for everything in this cankered world which I would wish were otherwise.
We are not wholly bad or good, who live our lives under Milk Wood.
Washington isn't a city, it's an abstraction.
These are but dreaming men. Breathe, and they fade.
Which is the world? Of our two sleepings, which / Shall fall awake when cures and their itch / Raise up this red-eyed earth?
It is spring, moonless night in the small town, starless and bible-black, the cobbledstreets silent and the hunched courters'-and-rabbits' wood limping invisible down to the sloeblack, slow, black, crowblack, fishingboat-bobbing sea.
He who seeks rest finds boredom. He who seeks work finds rest.
To begin, at the beginning...
Reaching a self freedom is the only object.
Make gentle the life of this world.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Looking through my bedroom window, out into the moonlight and the unending smoke-colored snow, I could see the lights in the windows of all the other houses on our hill and hear the music rising from them up the long, steadily falling night. I turned the gas down, I got into bed. I said some words to the close and holy darkness, and then I slept.
An alcoholic is someone you don't like, who drinks as much as you do.
These poems, with all their crudities, doubts, and confusions, are written for the love of Man and in praise of God, and I'd be a damn' fool if they weren't.
