Dylan Thomas

Dylan Thomas

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Was a Welsh poet and writer whose works include the poems "Do not go gentle into that good night" and "And death shall have no dominion"; the "play for voices" Under Milk Wood; and stories and radio broadcasts such as A Child's Christmas in Wales and Portrait of the Artist as a Young Dog.
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Не уходи покорно в сумрак ночи!
Пылает пусть в закате дня
Хромая старость и пророчит
Золу, что следствие огня.
Не уходи покорно в сумрак ночи!
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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,
Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night
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The hand that signed the paper felled a city;
Five sovereign fingers taxed the breath,
Doubled the globe of dead and halved a country;
These five kings did a king to death
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Say nay,
Man dry man,
Dry lover
The deadrock base and blow the flowered anchor,
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i W h oA r e  y o
Who   is
In   the   next
So   loud    to   my
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From love's first fever to her plague, from the soft
And to the hollow minute of the womb,
From the unfolding to the scissored caul,
The time for breast and the green apron
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In the mustardseed sun,
By full tilt river and switchback sea  Where the cormorants scud,
In his house on stilts high among beaks  And palavers of
This sandgrain day in the bent bay's grave  He celebrates and
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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
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I have longed to move
From the hissing of the spent
And the old terrors' continual
Growing more terrible as the
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This day winding down
At God speeded summer's
In the torrent salmon sun,
In my seashaken
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Once it was the colour of
Soaked my table the uglier side of a
With a capsized field where a school sat
And a black and white patch of girls grew playing;
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Before I knocked and flesh let enter,
With liquid hands tapped on the womb,
I who was as shapeless as the
That shaped the Jordan near my
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Sometimes the sky's too bright,
Or has too many clouds or birds,
And far away's too sharp a
To nourish thinking of him
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Incarnate devil in a talking snake,
The central plains of Asia in his garden,
In shaping-time the circle stung awake,
In shapes of sin forked out the bearded apple,
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Now as I was young and easy under the apple
About the lilting house and happy as the grass was green,
The night above the dingle starry,
Time let me hail and
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I could never have dreamt that there were such goings-onin the world between the covers of books, such sandstorms and ice blasts of words,,, such staggering peace, such enormous laughter, such and so many blinding bright lights,, ,splashing all ov...
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