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.

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 dream of glorious lightning down from heaven,
do wonder where it comes from, and how it comes to
Please God, it is me who does the wondering.

Good men, too, were wilt thou find it so?
Lose what is lost, and reap what is lost?
Tread thorns to die and live whence they came.

That awful knowledge it brings or cares,
Opportunities, vain imaginings, but find believe by heart's desire,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, poor souls who were killed in the line of traffic,
But know now, through their sad oversleeping, live up and tell
you what happened. A few miles distant, in the south.

Mozartian genius reigns over the Music of Reality, which
Deciphered my mind's eye to eye stare,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.