I have longed to move away

　　From the hissing¹ of the spent lie

　　And the old terrors' continual cry

　　Growing more terrible as the day

　　Goes over the hill into the deep sea；

　　I have longed to move away

　　From the repetition of salutes²，

　　For there are ghosts in the air

　　And ghostly echoes on paper，

　　And the thunder of calls and notes.

　　I have longed to move away but am afraid；

　　Some life， yet unspent， might explode

　　Out of the old lie burning on the ground，

　　And， crackling into the air， leave me half-blind.

　　Neither by night's ancient fear，

　　The parting of hat from hair，

　　Pursed lips at the receiver，

　　Shall I fall to death's feather.

　　By these I would not care to die，

　　Half convention and half lie.

Dylan Thomas