the one where he does not go gentle into that good night

Fifty-eight years ago today, the Welsh poet Dylan Thomas died of an alcohol overdose. Even if the name of the hard-drinking poet doesn’t ring a bell to you, I’m sure you’ve heard of one of his most famous poems, Do not go gentle into that good night.

Dylan wrote the poem watching his father, formerly in the Army, grow weak and frail with old age:

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.

I ripped this off from neatorama.com

One comment

  1. Have you read Jane Kenyon’s “Let Evening Come”? It was a favorite of one of my old writing instructors; in a lot of ways it was a response to Thomas’s.

    Let the light of late afternoon
    shine through chinks in the barn, moving
    up the bales as the sun moves down.

    Let the cricket take up chafing
    as a woman takes up her needles
    and her yarn. Let evening come.

    Let dew collect on the hoe abandoned
    in long grass. Let the stars appear
    and the moon disclose her silver horn.

    Let the fox go back to its sandy den.
    Let the wind die down. Let the shed
    go black inside. Let evening come.

    To the bottle in the ditch, to the scoop
    in the oats, to air in the lung
    let evening come.

    Let it come, as it will, and don’t
    be afraid. God does not leave us
    comfortless, so let evening come.
    Rory Marinich´s last [type] ..Exactly

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