Deaths And Entrances
On
almost
the
incendiary
eve
Of
several
near
deaths,
When
one
at
the
great
least
of
your
best
loved
And
always
known
must
leave
Lions
and
fires
of
his
flying
breath,
Of
your
immortal
friends
Who'd
raise
the
organs
of
the
counted
dust
To
shoot
and
sing
your
praise,
One
who
called
deepest
down
shall
hold
his
peace
That
cannot
sink
or
cease
Endlessly
to
his
wound
In
many
married
London's
estranging
grief.
On
almost
the
incendiary
eve
When
at
your
lips
and
keys,
Locking,
unlocking,
the
murdered
strangers
weave,
One
who
is
most
unknown,
Your
polestar
neighbour,
sun
of
another
street,
Will
dive
up
to
his
tears.
He'll
bathe
his
raining
blood
in
the
male
sea
Who
strode
for
your
own
dead
And
wind
his
globe
out
of
your
water
thread
And
load
the
throats
of
shells
with
every
cry
since
light
Flashed
first
across
his
thunderclapping
eyes.
On
almost
the
incendiary
eve
Of
deaths
and
entrances,
When
near
and
strange
wounded
on
London's
waves
Have
sought
your
single
grave,
One
enemy,
of
many,
who
knows
well
Your
heart
is
luminous
In
the
watched
dark,
quivering
through
locks
and
caves,
Will
pull
the
thunderbolts
To
shut
the
sun,
plunge,
mount
your
darkened
keys
And
sear
just
riders
back,
Until
that
one
loved
least
Looms
the
last
Samson
of
your
zodiac.
Dylan Thomas
Dylan Thomas (born October 27, 1914, Swansea, Glamorgan [now in Swansea], Wales—died November 9, 1953, New York, New York, U.S.) Welsh poet and prose writer whose work is known for its comic exuberance, rhapsodic lilt, and pathos. His personal life, punctuated by reckless bouts of drinking, was notorious. Thomas spent his childhood in southwestern Wales. His father taught English at the Swansea grammar school, which in due course the boy attended. Because Dylan’s mother was a farmer’s daughter, he had a country home he could go to when on holiday. His poem “Fern Hill” (1946) describes its joys.