Do not go gentle...
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rage 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.
Dylan Thomas
(Brownie, thanks for reminding me. I'm trying. Really, I am... ;-)
Old age should burn and rage 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.
Dylan Thomas
(Brownie, thanks for reminding me. I'm trying. Really, I am... ;-)
posted by The Editor at
11:24 AM
8 Comments:
That poem is sometimes read at funerals. Was that post for general consumption, or is it a private matter?
Wow. I had no idea. Shows you how many funerals I attend.
But I would have thought it'd be a bit late by then to heed that poem.
I read it more as a rant against old age and an exhortation to put up a fight rather than just rotting, sedated to the eyeballs, securely locked away in a nursing home somewhere where they won't even let you blog till you drop.
The situations where I have heard it read it was more as a tribute to the deceased who had done exactly as the poem suggests, fighting to their very last breath. As well as an exhortation to the rest of us to do the same.
But if you don't want to die in a nursing home bed with a dozen different tubes sticking out of you, you need to take up a more dangerous hobby than motorcycle riding. Hang gliding, say, or working for the CIA.
Just this morning I was talking to SWMBO about the need to have euthanasia laws whereby one can, whilst still compos mentis, set in place the conditions determining the termination of one's life.
Perzackerly. Assuming an accident doesn't wipe you out, the only way to die with dignity is to die before the last shred of dignity has gone, a.k.a. euthanasia.
However, I'm prepared to bet that we'll have legal gay marriage in every state in Australia long before euthanasia is legalised anywhere.
I would argue that until I have the right to end my life, I do not actually own my own life.
I think my own SWMBO will gladly and unsolicitedly bump me off if I keep shouting at the TV.
Phil, why are you shouting at the telly? :-)
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