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“Do not go gentle into that good night”
—Dylan Thomas

Not gentle, I went mad, as that good night
Enveloped me. What did you hope I’d gain,
My son, by perishing in rage? Less pain?
Bravado in the dying of the light?
You must have known I could not win that fight.
I cursed the darkness; then I cursed again:
A waste of precious breath! I swore in vain!
How senselessly I stormed into that night!

You stirred in me hot wrath against the fate
You thought you saw from your sad height. But No!
How wrong you were! I hurled wild words in brute
And senseless fury—till I learned, too late,
My foolish son, just what it means to go:
How strange to wake immersed in light—and mute!