Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night
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
grieve
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.
Dylan Thomas
Dylan Thomas (born October 27, 1914, Swansea, Glamorgan [now in Swansea], Wales—died November 9, 1953, New York, New York, U.S.) Welsh poet and prose writer whose work is known for its comic exuberance, rhapsodic lilt, and pathos. His personal life, punctuated by reckless bouts of drinking, was notorious. Thomas spent his childhood in southwestern Wales. His father taught English at the Swansea grammar school, which in due course the boy attended. Because Dylan’s mother was a farmer’s daughter, he had a country home he could go to when on holiday. His poem “Fern Hill” (1946) describes its joys.