Dylan Thomas, born in Swansea, Wales on October 27, 1914, pursued a career in writing directly after his completion of grammar school. Though he would receive no further formal education and would die from the effects of the heavy use of alcohol before he reached his fortieth birthday, today Thomas is generally considered Wales' greatest poet.

In 1931, just 17 years of age, Thomas began a stint as a reporter at the South Wales Evening Post. Late in 1932, Thomas left his job at the Post to concentrate on his career as a freelance journalist. He immediately saw the publication of his poem, "And Death Shall Have No Dominion" in 1933.

In November of 1934, Thomas moved to London. One week later, still just 20 years of age, Thomas saw his first volume of Poetry , "18 Poems," published. He remained in London until April of 1938, at which time he returned to his birth-home in Swansea.

In 1939, his first ever American published volume of poetry, "The World I Breathe" was released but it was not until 1950 that Thomas made his first ever appearances in America with a lecture tour. He followed that up with a second such lecture series in 1952.

While on yet another tour in America, the hard-drinking Thomas went on a binge while in New York. On November 4th, 1953, he fell into a coma, and on November 9th, died while at St.Vincent's Hospital in New York.

The immensely talented poet was an inspiration for a young American folk musician by the name of Robert Zimmerman, who changed his name as an eighteen-year-old teenager to a more hip sounding, Bob Dylan.

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.