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.

That good night that blinds,

That good night that flows

from bleeding hearts carrying

All the torment and black of a broken souls

Deep in the depths of age,

That good night that infects us.

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

The blackness that holds the soul of the insane

Writhes with the coming of the lights,

The phoenix flame that flares ever-flickering

Fighting for the dying light forevermore.

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Desolation drives the dead to dread daylight,

The hollow halls of that gentle night haunting

The soul of every being to be within its grasp,

All who rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Do not go gently into that good night,

The good night that burns,

The good night that turns

Good men to beasts,

They who feast

On the fear of those beneath them,

They who live in dread,

Those who hide from the dead

Like the ghosts can’t follow them into the night.

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.