Explore "To-Day, this Hour I Breathe" by Dylan Thomas on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
To-day, this hour I breathe / In symbols, be they so light, of tongue and air, / The now I have space / And time that is already half
More than that I tell you in, / I have divided / Sense into sight and trust.
The certain is a fable.
Oh, iron bird, you are not credited
But fly, against joy, for that is not / If sea is rare / That does not imitate / Boy with the voice, or timpani, / The same, you likable machine.
As well, creature has no flesh / And does not try the sun with seeing, / But measures his own length on a wall, / And leaves his shell / A butterfly before the chrysalis,
A flying egg of inhibition.
My she loves me is easy prey / For moving down another shaft, / Up to the hilt his going-backs, / And here, upon a hand,
A hundred years are by me cut.