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.

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.

Washington isn't a city, it's an abstraction.

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.

And time cast forth my mortal creature To drift or drown upon the seas Acquainted with the salt adventure Of tides that never touch the shores. - I who was rich was made the richer By sipping at the the vine of days.

The best poem is that whose worked-upon unmagical passages come closest, in texture and intensity, to those moments of magical accident.

I know we're not saints or virgins or lunatics; we know all the lust and lavatory jokes, and most of the dirty people; we can catch buses and count our change and cross the roads and talk real sentences. But our innocence goes awfully deep, and our discreditable secret is that we don't know anything at all, and our horrid inner secret is that we don't care that we don't.