Rage Against the Dying of the Light

Do not go gentle into that good night; fight fiercely against the fading light. Old age should burn and rave at the close of day rage, rage against the dying of the light. Even the wise, who know that darkness is inevitable, refuse to surrender quietly because their words, though wise, have never pierced the sky with the force of lightning. They do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, with their deeds glowing like a final sunset, cry out in regret as the waves of time wash over their achievements. They know their acts could have shone brighter, could have danced more vividly in the green waters of life. So they rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men, who chased the sun and sang in its brilliant flight, only realize too late that they mourn its setting as they too are swept along by time. They do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, facing death, see with newfound clarity though their eyes are dim, they blaze with the brightness of meteors. They rage, rage against the dying of the light, refusing to let their brilliance be snuffed out easily.

And you, my father, there on that high and sorrowful threshold 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.