by Dylan Thomas
Do not go gentle into that
good night,
Old age should burn and
rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying
of the light.
Though wise men at their
end know dark is right,
Because their words had
forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that
good night.
Good men, the last wave
by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might
have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying
of the light.
Wild men who caught and
sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they
grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that
good night.
Grave men, near death, who
see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like
meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying
of the light.
And you, my father, there
on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with
your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that
good night.
Rage, rage against the dying
of the light.
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