9780241746264

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Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night

1914–1953

a p enguin since 1996

Dylan Thomas

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night

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Dylan Thomas’s Collected Poems 1934–1952 published by J. M. Dent & Sons 1952

This edition published in Penguin Classics 2025 001

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner for the purpose of training artificial intelligence technologies or systems. In accordance with Article 4(3) of the DSM Directive 2019/790, Penguin Random House expressly reserves this work from the text and data mining exception.

Set in 11.6/15 pt Dante MT Std

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Printed and bound in Great Britain by Clays Ltd, Elcograf S.p.A.

The authorized representative in the EEA is Penguin Random House Ireland, Morrison Chambers, 32 Nassau Street, Dublin D 02 YH 68

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

ISBN : 978–0–241–74626–4

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Prologue

This day winding down now

At God speeded summer’s end

In the torrent salmon sun,

In my seashaken house

On a breakneck of rocks

Tangled with chirrup and fruit, Froth, flute, fin and quill

At a wood’s dancing hoof, By scummed, starfish sands

With their fishwife cross

Gulls, pipers, cockles, and sails,

Out there, crow black, men

Tackled with clouds, who kneel

To the sunset nets,

Geese nearly in heaven, boys

Stabbing, and herons, and shells

That speak seven seas, Eternal waters away

From the cities of nine

Days’ night whose towers will catch

In the religious wind

Like stalks of tall, dry straw, At poor peace I sing

To you, strangers, (though song

Is a burning and crested act, The fire of birds in

The world’s turning wood, For my sawn, splay sounds), Out of these seathumbed leaves

That will fly and fall

Like leaves of trees and as soon

Crumble and undie

Into the dogdayed night.

Seaward the salmon, sucked sun slips, And the dumb swans drub blue

My dabbed bay’s dusk, as I hack

This rumpus of shapes

For you to know

How I, a spinning man, Glory also this star, bird

Roared, sea born, man torn, blood blest.

Hark: I trumpet the place,

From fish to jumping hill! Look:

I build my bellowing ark

To the best of my love

As the flood begins, Out of the fountainhead

Of fear, rage red, manalive, Molten and mountainous to stream

Over the wound asleep

Sheep white hollow farms

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