poet Dylan Thomas

Dylan Thomas

#34 on top 500 poets

How Soon The Servant Sun

How soon the servant sun,
(Sir morrow mark),
Can time unriddle, and the cupboard stone,
(Fog has a bone
He'll trumpet into meat),
Unshelve that all my gristles have a gown
And the naked egg stand straight,

Sir morrow at his sponge,
(The wound records),
The nurse of giants by the cut sea basin,
(Fog by his spring
Soaks up the sewing tides),
Tells you and you, my masters, as his strange
Man morrow blows through food.

All nerves to serve the sun,
The rite of light,
A claw I question from the mouse's bone,
The long-tailed stone
Trap I with coil and sheet,
Let the soil squeal I am the biting man
And the velvet dead inch out.

How soon my level, lord,
(Sir morrow stamps
Two heels of water on the floor of seed),
Shall raise a lamp
Or spirit up a cloud,
Erect a walking centre in the shroud,
Invisible on the stump

A leg as long as trees,
This inward sir,
Mister and master, darkness for his eyes,
The womb-eyed, cries,
And all sweet hell, deaf as an hour's ear,
Blasts back the trumpet voice.

Poem Submitted: Tuesday, March 30, 2010

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Comments about How Soon The Servant Sun by Dylan Thomas

  • Kora Larkin (11/15/2015 9:42:00 PM)

    I think this might be about not living up to the expectations of your family. The talk of the master, the sun, comparing bones...I don't know...

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  • Brian JaniBrian Jani (4/26/2014 1:47:00 AM)

    Awesome I like this poem, check mine oit

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  • Denis Prosser (6/12/2013 6:29:00 PM)

    he wrote some great poems but I find this one so obscure - incomprehensible.

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