The best poem is that whose ...

The best poem is that whose worked-upon unmagical passages come closest, in texture and intensity, to those moments of magical accident.
The best poem is that whose worked-upon unmagical passages come closest, in texture and intensity, to those moments of magical accident.
 Dylan Thomas

More phrases

There is an ocean of endless opportunities, and there are so many things that one can do. I'm so fortunate that I've grown up with this sort of a philosophy and mentality.
 Hafez Nazeri
The two worst strategic mistakes to make are acting prematurely and letting an opportunity slip.
A warrior knows that he is only a man. His only regret is that his life is so short that he can't grab onto all the things he would like to. But for him, this is not an issue; it's only a pity.
The Warrior lives a life full of adventure, living on the edge of opportunity. Life on the edge keeps him in a space of heightened awareness and totally in the moment; therefore no matter what comes his way he is always prepared.
 James Arthur Ray
It was a good opportunity for me to wear a NBA jersey. The Golden State Warriors gave me an opportunity to come in and play for them. I was very appreciative of that.
 John Starks

Quotes from the same author

I love you so much I’ll never be able to tell you; I’m frightened to tell you. I can always feel your heart. Dance tunes are always right: I love you body and soul: —and I suppose body means that I want to touch you and be in bed with you, and i suppose soul means that i can hear you and see you and love you in every single, single thing in the whole world asleep or awake
 Dylan Thomas
I know in London a Welsh hairdresser who has striven so vehemently to abolish his accent that he sounds like a man speaking with the Elgin marbles in his mouth.
 Dylan Thomas
Washington isn't a city, it's an abstraction.
 Dylan Thomas
All world was one, one windy nothing, My world was christened in a stream of milk.
 Dylan Thomas
Years and years ago, when I was a boy, when there were wolves in Wales, and birds the color of red-flannel petticoats whisked past the harp-shaped hills, when we sang and wallowed all night and day in caves that smelt like Sunday afternoons in damp front farmhouse parlors, and we chased, with the jawbones of deacons, the English and the bears, before the motor car, before the wheel, before the duchess-faced horse, when we rode the daft and happy hills bareback, it snowed and it snowed.
 Dylan Thomas