Dylan Thomas

If I were rubbed by the tickle of love

Nor would I twist in the fathoms of claws

Its teeth of a thousand unlocking locks

between clashing Rock mountains and gnarls

I would not flee from its audible Roar

brandishing exhalations of Furor

Flowers for my petals Felt skin worn

Sated in a mirror thats a Window form

That holds neither Image nor Photograph

then when the echo of a chamber forks

with its days along spikes it has born

transferring the light of a first morning

foist along the barricaded blister

I would not fear the Thistle or the Thorn