Dylan Thomas

The only sea I saw Was the seesaw sea With you riding on it. Lie down, lie easy. Let me shipwreck in your thighs.

Man be my metaphor_,

I do not need any friends. I prefer enemies. They are better company and their feelings towards you are always genuine.

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.

It snowed last year too: I made a snowman and my brother knocked it down and I knocked my brother down and then we had tea.

Do not go gentle into that good night.

An alcoholic is someone you don't like, who drinks as much as you do.

And when the firemen turned off the hose and were standing in the wet, smoky room, Jim's Aunt, Miss. Prothero, came downstairs and peered in at them. Jim and I waited, very quietly, to hear what she would say to them. She said the right thing, always. She looked at the three tall firemen in their shining helmets, standing among the smoke and cinders and dissolving snowballs, and she said, "Would you like anything to read?

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.

My education was the liberty I had to read indiscriminately and all the time, with my eyes hanging out.

Though lovers be lost, love shall not; And death shall have no dominion.

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.

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.

When one burns one's bridges, what a very nice fire it makes.

Do not go gentle into that good night but rage, rage against the dying of the light.

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.

Though lovers be lost, love shall not.

He who seeks rest finds boredom. He who seeks work finds rest.