Holy Spring
O
Out
of
a
bed
of
love
When
that
immortal
hospital
made
one
more
move
to
soothe
The
cureless
counted
body,
And
ruin
and
his
causes
Over
the
barbed
and
shooting
sea
assumed
an
army
And
swept
into
our
wounds
and
houses,
I
climb
to
greet
the
war
in
which
I
have
no
heart
but
only
That
one
dark
I
owe
my
light,
Call
for
confessor
and
wiser
mirror
but
there
is
none
To
glow
after
the
god
stoning
night
And
I
am
struck
as
lonely
as
a
holy
maker
by
the
sun
No
Praise
that
the
spring
time
is
all
Gabriel
and
radiant
shrubbery
as
the
morning
grows
joyful
Out
of
the
woebegone
pyre
And
the
multitude's
sultry
tear
turns
cool
on
the
weeping
wall,
My
arising
prodigal
Sun
the
father
his
quiver
full
of
the
infants
of
pure
fire,
But
blessed
be
hail
and
upheaval
That
uncalm
still
it
is
sure
alone
to
stand
and
sing
Alone
in
the
husk
of
man's
home
And
the
mother
and
toppling
house
of
the
holy
spring,
If
only
for
a
last
time.
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.