I sang in my chains like the sea
Nothing grows in our garden, only washing. And babies.
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.
The force that through the green fuse drives the flower drives my green age.
Rage, rage against the dying light
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.
Sleeping as quiet as death, side by wrinkled side, toothless, salt and brown, like two old kippers in a box.
I've just had eighteen straight whiskies. I think that's the record.
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.
Go on thinking that you don't need to be read and you'll find that it may become quite true: no one will feel the need tom read it because it is written for yourself alone; and the public won't feel any impulse to gate crash such a private party.
Dark is a way and light is a place, Heaven that never was Nor will be ever is always true "Poem on His Birthday
There is only one po- sition for an artist anywhere: and that is, upright.
The photograph is married to the eye, Grafts on its bride one-sided skins of truth.
... Rebel against the flesh and bone, The word of the blood, the wily skin, And the maggot no man can slay.
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.
The land of my fathers. My fathers can have it.
Washington isn't a city, it's an abstraction.
I know in London a Welsh hairdresser who has striven so vehemently to abolish his accent that he sounds like a man speaking with the Elgin marbles in his mouth.
Great is the hand that holds dominion over man by a scribbled name.
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.
But oh, San Francisco! It is and has everything - you wouldn't think that such a place as San Francisco could exist.
I used to think that once a writer became a man of letters, if only for a half hour, he was done for. And here I am now, at the very moment of such an odious, though respectable, danger.
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
Hands have not tears to flow.
The condition of the world today is such that most writers feel they cannot truthfully be "comic" about it.
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