A socialist to the end
Dylan Thomas as social writer
Remember the procession of the old-young menFrom dole queue to corner and back again,From the pinched, packed streets to the peak of slagIn the bite of the winters with shovel and bag,With a drooping fag and a turned up collar,Stamping for the cold at the ill lit cornerDragging through the squalor with their hearts like leadStaring at the hunger and the shut pit-headNothing in their pockets, nothing home to eat,Lagging from the slag heap to the pinched, packed street.Remember the procession of the old-young men.It shall never happen again.
The Marxist poet: beyond propaganda
And death shall have no dominion.Dead men naked they shall be oneWith the man in the wind and the west moon;When their bones are picked clean and the clean bones gone,They shall have stars at elbow and foot;Though they go mad they shall be sane,Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again;Though lovers be lost love shall not;And death shall have no dominion.