Twenty-four Years by Dylan Thomas

Twenty-four years remind the tears of my eyes.

(Bury the dead for fear that they walk to the grave in labour.)

In the groin of the natural doorway I crouched like a tailor

Sewing a shroud for a journey

By the light of the meat-eating sun.

Dressed to die, the sensual strut begun,

With my red veins full of money,

In the final direction of the elementary town

I advance for as long as forever is.

 

by Dylan Thomas


 

Fun fact: Because of his almost obsessive preoccupation with death, each birthday was a milestone that called for a celebration, and on several occasions Thomas composed a poem that expresses his sense of where he stood as a man and an artist. “Twenty-four Years” is his earliest significant version of this celebratory mode, and it is full of both the exuberance of early manhood and his already familiar feeling that death was imminent.

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May 26, 1828 by Alexander Pushkin

Gift haphazard, unavailing,

Life, why wert thou given to me?

Why art thou to death unfailing

Sentencing by dark destiny?

 

Who in harsh despotic fashion

Once from Nothing called me out,

Filled my soul with burning passion

Vexed and shook my mind with doubt?

 

I can see no goal before me:

Empty heart and idle mind.

life monotonously o’er me

Roars, and leaves a wound behind.

 

by Александр Сергеевич Пушкин (Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin)

translated by C. M. Bowra