Now we lament one Who danced on a plume of words, Sang with a fountain's panache, Dazzled like slate roofs in sun After rain, was flighty as birds And alone as a mountain ash. The ribald, inspired urchin Leaning over the lip Of his world, as over a rock pool Or a lucky dip, Found everything brilliant and virgin.

-Day-Lewis, Cecil
  'In Memory of Dylan Thomas'.

   Forthwith upright he rears from off the pool His mighty stature; on each hand the flames Driv'n backward slope their pointing spires, and rolled In billows, leave i'th'midst a horrid vale.

-Milton,John
  Of Satan. Paradise Lost (published1667), bk.1, l.221.