Though lovers be lost, love shall not; And death shall have no dominion.
The only sea I saw Was the seesaw sea With you riding on it. Lie down, lie easy. Let me shipwreck in your thighs.
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.
An alcoholic is someone you don’t like, who drinks as much as you do.
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.
Time held me green and dyingThough I sang in my chains like the sea.
Poetry is not the most important thing in life… I’d much rather lie in a hot bath reading Agatha Christie and sucking sweets.
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.
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.
My education was the liberty I had to read indiscriminately and all the time, with my eyes hanging out.
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.
I do not need any friends. I prefer enemies. They are better company and their feelings towards you are always genuine.
Rhianon, he said, hold my hand, Rhianon.She did not hear him, but stood over his bed and fixed him with an unbroken sorrow.Hold my hand, he said, and then: why are your putting the sheet over my face?
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.
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.
My education was the liberty I had to read indiscriminately and all the time with my eyes hanging out.
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.
The function of posterity is to look after itself.
He who seeks rest finds boredom. He who seeks work finds rest.
Do not go gentle into that good night but rage, rage against the dying of the light.
When one burns one’s bridges, what a very nice fire it makes.
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.