Do not go gentle into that good night,

Old age should burn and rave at close of day;

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,

Because their words had forked no lightning they

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright

Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,

And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight

Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,

And you, my father, there on the sad height,

Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.

-Dylan Thomas