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