Do You Not Father Me
Do
you
not
father
me,
nor
the
erected
arm
For
my
tall
tower's
sake
cast
in
her
stone?
Do
you
not
mother
me,
nor,
as
I
am,
The
lovers'
house,
lie
suffering
my
stain?
Do
you
not
sister
me,
nor
the
erected
crime
For
my
tall
turrets
carry
as
your
sin?
Do
you
not
brother
me,
nor,
as
you
climb,
Adore
my
windows
for
their
summer
scene?
Am
I
not
father,
too,
and
the
ascending
boy,
The
boy
of
woman
and
the
wanton
starer
Marking
the
flesh
and
summer
in
the
bay?
Am
I
not
sister,
too,
who
is
my
saviour?
Am
I
not
all
of
you
by
the
directed
sea
Where
bird
and
shell
are
babbling
in
my
tower?
Am
I
not
you
who
front
the
tidy
shore,
Nor
roof
of
sand,
nor
yet
the
towering
tiler?
You
are
all
these,
said
she
who
gave
me
the
long
suck,
All
these,
he
said
who
sacked
the
children's
town,
Up
rose
the
Abraham-man,
mad
for
my
sake,
They
said,
who
hacked
and
humoured,
they
were
mine.
I
am,
the
tower
told,
felled
by
a
timeless
stroke,
Who
razed
my
wooden
folly
stands
aghast,
For
man-begetters
in
the
dry-as-paste,
The
ringed-sea
ghost,
rise
grimly
from
the
wrack.
Do
you
not
father
me
on
the
destroying
sand?
You
are
your
sisters'
sire,
said
seaweedy,
The
salt
sucked
dam
and
darlings
of
the
land
Who
play
the
proper
gentleman
and
lady.
Shall
I
still
be
love's
house
on
the
widdershin
earth,
Woe
to
the
windy
masons
at
my
shelter?
Love's
house,
they
answer,
and
the
tower
death
Lie
all
unknowing
of
the
grave
sin-eater.
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.