• 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.

Dylan Thomas 1914-1953