Here you will find the Poem A Saint About To Fall of poet Dylan Thomas
A saint about to fall, The stained flats of heaven hit and razed To the kissed kite hems of his shawl, On the last street wave praised The unwinding, song by rock, Of the woven wall Of his father's house in the sands, The vanishing of the musical ship-work and the chucked bells, The wound-down cough of the blood-counting clock Behind a face of hands, On the angelic etna of the last whirring featherlands, Wind-heeled foot in the hole of a fireball, Hymned his shrivelling flock, On the last rick's tip by spilled wine-wells Sang heaven hungry and the quick Cut Christbread spitting vinegar and all The mazes of his praise and envious tongue were worked in flames and shells. Glory cracked like a flea. The sun-leaved holy candlewoods Drivelled down to one singeing tree With a stub of black buds, The sweet, fish-gilled boats bringing blood Lurched through a scuttled sea With a hold of leeches and straws, Heaven fell with his fall and one crocked bell beat the left air. O wake in me in my house in the mud Of the crotch of the squawking shores, Flicked from the carbolic city puzzle in a bed of sores The scudding base of the familiar sky, The lofty roots of the clouds. From an odd room in a split house stare, Milk in your mouth, at the sour floods That bury the sweet street slowly, see The skull of the earth is barbed with a war of burning brains and hair. Strike in the time-bomb town, Raise the live rafters of the eardrum, Throw your fear a parcel of stone Through the dark asylum, Lapped among herods wail As their blade marches in That the eyes are already murdered, The stocked heart is forced, and agony has another mouth to feed. O wake to see, after a noble fall, The old mud hatch again, the horrid Woe drip from the dishrag hands and the pressed sponge of the forehead, The breath draw back like a bolt through white oil And a stranger enter like iron. Cry joy that hits witchlike midwife second Bullies into rough seas you so gentle And makes with a flick of the thumb and sun A thundering bullring of your silent and girl-circled island.