#Welsh
The hand that signed the paper fel… Five sovereign fingers taxed the b… Doubled the globe of dead and halv… These five kings did a king to dea… The mighty hand leads to a sloping…
The tombstone told when she died. Her two surnames stopped me still. A virgin married at rest. She married in this pouring place, That I struck one day by luck,
The seed-at-zero shall not storm That town of ghosts, the trodden w… With her rampart to his tapping, No god-in-hero tumble down Like a tower on the town
After the funeral, mule praises, b… Windshake of sailshaped ears, muff… Tap happily of one peg in the thic… Grave’s foot, blinds down the lids… The spittled eyes, the salt ponds…
—"Poem in October," Dylan Thomas, Poetry, February 1945 As the story goes, the thirty—something Dylan Thomas would only get up in the morning if someone stuffed a beer bottle in his mo...
It’s my belief that every man Should do his share of work, And in our economic plan No citizen should shirk. That in return each one should get
Not from this anger, anticlimax af… Refusal struck her loin and the la… Bent like a beast to lap the singu… In a land strapped by hunger Shall she receive a bellyful of we…
Now Say nay, Man dry man, Dry lover mine The deadrock base and blow the flo…
I dreamed my genesis in sweat of s… Through the rotating shell, strong As motor muscle on the drill, driv… Through vision and the girdered ne… From limbs that had the measure of…
One Christmas was so much like another, in those years around the sea-town corner now and out of all sound except the distant speaking of the voices I sometimes hear a moment before sle...
A process in the weather of the he… Turns damp to dry; the golden shot Storms in the freezing tomb. A weather in the quarter of the ve… Turns night to day; blood in their…
Lie still, sleep becalmed, suffere… In the throat, burning and turning… On the silent sea we have heard th… That came from the wound wrapped i… Under the mile off moon we tremble…
If I were tickled by the rub of l… A rooking girl who stole me for he… Broke through her straws, breaking… If the red tickle as the cattle ca… Still set to scratch a laughter fr…
A Letter To My Aunt Discussing… To you, my aunt, who would explore The literary Chankley Bore, The paths are hard, for you are no… A literary Hottentot
I see the boys of summer in their… Lay the gold tithings barren, Setting no store by harvest, freez… There in their heat the winter flo… Of frozen loves they fetch their g…