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 that 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
