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

โ€” Dylan Thomas

The most jaw-dropping Dylan Thomas quotes that are little-known but priceless

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


I hold a beast, an angel and a madman within me.

Dylan Thomas quote I think, that if I touched the earth, it

I think, that if I touched the earth, it would crumble; It is so sad and beautiful, so tremulously like a dream.


Light breaks where no sun shines; Where no sea runs, the waters of the heart; Push in their tides.


Life always offers you a second chance. is called tomorrow.


A good poem is a contribution to reality.

The world is never the same once a good poem has been added to it. A good poem helps to change the shape of the universe, helps to extend everyone's knowledge of himself and the world around him.


I love you more than anybody in the world.

.. I love you for millions and millions of things, clocks and vampires and dirty nails and squiggly paintings and lovely hair and being dizzy and falling dreams.


You wouldn't think such a place as San Francisco could exist.

The wonderful sunlight there, the hills, the great bridges, the Pacific at your shoes. Beautiful Chinatown. Every race in the world. The sardine fleets sailing out. The little cable-cars whizzing down The City hills. And all the people are open and friendly.


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


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.


The best craftsmanship always leaves holes and gaps.

.. so that something that is not in the poem can creep, crawl, flash or thunder in.


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.


Cold beer is bottled God.


About Dylan Thomas

Quotes 136 sayings
Nationality Welsh
Profession Poet
Birthday October 16

Somebody's boring me. I think it's me.


I think, that if I touched the earth, It would crumble;

It is so sad and beautiful, So tremulously like a dream.


My tears are like the quiet drift of petals from some magic rose;

and all my grief flows from the rift of unremembered skies and snows. I think that if I touched the earth, it would crumble; it is so sad and beautiful, so tremulously like a dream.


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.


Though they go mad they shall be sane, though they sink through the sea they shall rise again; though lovers be lost love shall not; and death shall have no dominion.


Especially when the October wind With frosty fingers punishes my hair, Caught by the crabbing sun I walk on fire And cast a shadow crab upon the land, By the sea's side, hearing the noise of birds, Hearing the raven cough in winter sticks, My busy heart who shudders as she talks Sheds the syllabic blood and drains her words.


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.


To begin at the beginning: It is a spring moonless night in the small town, starless and bible-black.


Do not go gentle into that good night.


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.


Poetry is not the most important thing in life.

.. I'd much rather lie in a hot bath reading Agatha Christie and sucking sweets.


A horrid alcoholic explosion scatters all my good intentions like bits of limbs and clothes over the doorsteps and into the saloon bars of the tawdriest pubs.


If you want a definition of poetry, say: Poetry is what makes me laugh or cry or yawn, what makes my toenails twinkle, what makes me want to do this or that or nothing and let it go at that.


And books which told me everything about the wasp, except why.


Don't be too harsh to these poems until they're typed.

I always think typescript lends some sort of certainty: at least, if the things are bad then, they appear to be bad with conviction.


When logics die, The secret of the soil grows through the eye, And blood jumps in the sun; Above the waste allotments the dawn halts.


Manโ€™s wants remain unsatisfied till death.

Then, when his soul is naked, is he one With the man in the wind, and the west moon, With the harmonious thunder of the sun


The only sea I saw Was the seesaw sea With you riding on it.

Lie down, lie easy. Let me shipwreck in your thighs.


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


What I like to do is treat words as a craftsman does his wood or stone or what-have-you, to hew, carve, mold, coil, polish, and plane them into patterns, sequences, sculptures, fugues of sound expressing some lyrical impulse, some spiritual doubt or conviction, some dimly realized truth I must try to reach and realize.


Chastity prays for me, piety sings, Innocence sweetens my last black breath, Modesty hides my thighs in her wings, And all the deadly virtues plague my death!


Reading one's own poems aloud is letting the cat out of the bag.

You may have always suspected bits of a poem to be overweighted, overviolent, or daft, and then, suddenly, with the poet's tongue around them, your suspicion is made certain.


And death shall have no dominion. Under the windings of the sea They lying long shall not die windily; Twisting on racks when sinews give way, Strapped to a wheel, yet they shall not break; Faith in their hands shall snap in two, And the unicorn evils run them through; Split all ends up they shan't crack; And death shall have no dominion.


Do not go gentle into the good night. Old age should burn and rage at close of day.


Oh, isn't life a terrible thing, thank God?


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 best poem is that whose worked-upon unmagical passages come closest, in texture and intensity, to those moments of magical accident.


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.


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.


I've just had eighteen straight whiskies. I think that's the record.


The function of posterity is to look after itself.


And on seesaw Sunday nights, I'd woo who ever I would with my wicked eye!


Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way, Do not go gentle into that good night.


Join the army and see the next world.


Great is the hand that holds dominion over man by a scribbled name.


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