I just had 19 shots of whiskey, I think thats a record.
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Though lovers be lost love shall not; And death shall have no dominion.
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One Christmas was so much like another,...that I can never remember whether it snowed for six days and six nights when I was twleve or whether it snowed for twelve days and twelve nights when I was six.
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Out of the sighs a little comes, But not of grief, for I have knocked down that...
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Do not go gentle into that good night.
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Deep with the first dead lies London's daughter, Robed in the long friends,...
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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.
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Do not go gentle into that good night.
RAGE, RAGE against the dying of the light.
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You can tear a poem apart to see what makes it tick... You're back with the mystery of having been moved by words. The best craftsmanship always leaves holes and gaps... so that something that is not in the poem can creep, crawl, flash or thunder in.
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A fig for The seal of fire,...
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Oh, let me midlife mourn by the shrined And druid herons' vows...
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An alcoholic is someone you don't like who drinks as much as you do.
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Chastity prays for me, piety sings, Innocence sweetens my last black breath,...
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Now stamp the Lord's Prayer on a grain of rice, A Bible-leaved of all the written woods...
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18 straight whiskies - I think that's a record.
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A process in the weather of the world Turns ghost to ghost; each mothered child...
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And death shall have no dominion. Dead men naked they shall be one With the man in the wind and the west moon;
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'... Rebel against the flesh and bone, The word of the blood, the wily skin, And the maggot no man can slay.'
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Someone's boring me. I think it's me.
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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.
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Oh may my heart's truth Still be sung On this high hill in a year's turning.
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I just drank eighteen whiskies. That must be a record.
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Were that enough, bone, blood, and sinew, The twisted brain, the fair-formed loin,...
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Never be lucid, never state, if you would be regarded great.
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When the salt sheet broke in a storm of singing The voices of all the drowned swam on the wind.
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... burned to tireless death A child of a few hours...
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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.
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You are the most beautiful girl that has ever lived, and it is worth dying to have kissed you.
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The function of posterity is to look after itself.
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And all your deeds and words, Each truth, each lie, Die in unjudging love.
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