Out of a war of wits, when folly of words
Was the world’s to me, and syllables
Fell hard as whips on an old wound,
My brain came crying into the fresh light,
Called for confessor but there was none
To purge after the wits’ fight,
And I was struck dumb by the sun.
Praise that my body be whole, I’ve limbs,
Not stumps, after the hour battle,
For the body’s brittle and the skin’s white.
Praise that only the wits are hurt after the wits’ fight.
Overwhelmed by the sun, with a torn brain
I stand beneath the clouds’ confessional
But the hot beams rob me of speech,
After the perils of friends’ talk
Reach asking arms up to the milky sky,
After a volley of questions and replies
Lift wit-hurt head for sun to sympathize,
And the sun heals, closing sore eyes.
It is good that the sun shine,
And, after it has sunk, the sane moon,
For out of a house of matchboard and stone
Where men would argue till the stars be green,
It is good to step onto the earth, alone,
And be struck dumb, if only for a time.
- Dylan Thomas