Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
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 that 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.
We are immortals until we die
When our final breath leaves with a sigh.
Our last cuss, sworn
No more we see the dawn
Our bodies abandoned just lie
Soul set free to fly.
Like a bird, take flight
Into darkness or light?
Passing stranger! You do not know how longingly I look upon you,
You must be he I was seeking, or she I was seeking, ( It comes to me as of a dream).
I have somewhere surely lived a life of joy with you.
All is recall’d as we flit by each other, fluid, affectionate, chaste, matured.
You grew up with me, were a boy with me or a girl with me.
I ate with you and slept with you, your body has become not yours only nor left my body mine only.
You gave me the pleasure of your eyes, face, flesh, as we pass, you take of my beard, breast, hands in return.
I am not to speak to you, I am to think of you when I sit alone or wake at night alone.
I am to wait, I do not doubt I am to meet you again,
I am to see to it that I do not lose you.
Walt Whitman.
In the quiet, still morning
Of calm waters and painted skies
A tall story waits to be told.
On the surface of life
Becalmed and serene
The undertow is of strife
Not living the dream.
I drift down the river
To lay anchor in muddy waters
A fool waiting for life to deliver
Or a lamb to the slaughter.
Just floating on tides
Sails curtailed
The breeze just a sigh
No canvas unfurled.
Abandoned in the mouth of the estuary
Just point against the tide
Looking to sea and ecstasy
Alone! And no-where to hide.
Barnacles hidden from sight
If exposed would give fright
No longer in youthful flight
That cannot be right.
In the quiet, still morning
Of calm waters and painted skies
A tall story waits to be told.