Twelve
Dylan Thomas
1914 to 1953
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That the sum sanity might add to naught
And fall crippled from the slaving lips,
Girls take to when the thief of night
Has stolen the starved from their laps,
I would enforce the black apparelled cries,
Speak like a hungry parson of the manna,
Add more nail of praise on to the cross,
And of light to a mad miner.
I would be a religious shape;
As fleeced as they bow lowly the sheep,
My house would fall like bread about homage;
And I would choke the heavens with my
That men might see the devil in the crumb
the death in a starving image.