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.

— Dylan Thomas

Every device there is in language is there to be used, if you will. Poets have got to enjoy themselves sometimes, and the twisting and convolutions of words, the inventions and contrivances, are all part of the joy that is part of the painful, voluntary work.

— Dylan Thomas

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.

— Dylan Thomas

Hands have no tears to flow.

— Dylan Thomas

He who seeks rest finds boredom. He who seeks work finds rest.

— Dylan Thomas

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.

— Dylan Thomas

I do not need any friends. I prefer enemies. They are better company and their feelings towards you are always genuine.

— Dylan Thomas

I know we're not saints or virgins or lunatics; we know all the lust and lavatory jokes, and most of the dirty people; we can catch buses and count our change and cross the roads and talk real sentences. But our innocence goes awfully deep, and our discreditable secret is that we don't know anything at all, and our horrid inner secret is that we don't care that we don't.

— Dylan Thomas

[I'm]a freak user of words, not a poet.

— Dylan Thomas

In my craft or sullen art Exercised in the still night When only the moon rages And the lovers lie abed With all their griefs in their arms, I labor by singing light Not for ambition or bread Or the strut and trade of charms On the ivory stages But for the common wages Of their most secret heart. Not for the proud man apart From the raging moon I write On these spin drift pages Nor for the towering dead With their nightingales and psalms But for the lovers, their arms Round the griefs of the ages, Who pay no praise or wages Nor heed my craft or art.

— Dylan Thomas