Friday, March 31, 2006

My fave

Thought I'd share a favorite poem of mine.


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.

- Dylan Thomas

7 Comments:

Blogger Hrbek said...

did u say 'be gay'?

March 31, 2006 11:12 AM  
Blogger steeler247 said...

I try and bring a little culture in your life and this is how i'm treated?!? I'm done with you guys.


(yes, squib. I am)

March 31, 2006 12:59 PM  
Blogger Hrbek said...

I didnt say it, you did

Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay, ...

March 31, 2006 5:05 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

*cough HOMO cough*

April 01, 2006 11:44 AM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

I feeeeeeel the loooooove.

Don't you????

April 01, 2006 2:06 PM  
Blogger t said...

i love dylan thomas

the rest of you uncultured ppl can go not so gently into the light

:P

April 01, 2006 4:44 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

this one by him is pinned on the bulletin board over my desk:

In my craft or sullen art
Exercised in the still night
When only the moon rages
And the lovers lie abed
With all their griefs in their arms,
I labour by singing light
Not for ambition or bread
Or the strut and trade of charms
On the ivory stages
But for the common wages
Of their most secret heart.

Not for the proud man apart
From the raging moon I write
On these spindrift pages
Nor for the towering dead
With their nightingales and psalms
But for the lovers, their arms
Round the griefs of the ages,
Who pay no praise or wages
Nor heed my craft or art.

April 04, 2006 3:03 PM  

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