Do not go gently into that good night but rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And I rose In rainy autumn And walked abroad in a shower of all my days.

My birthday began with the water - Birds and the birds of the winged trees flying my name.

Beginning with doom in the bulb, the spring unravels.

Whatever talents I possess may suddenly diminish or suddenly increase. I can with ease become an ordinary fool. I may be one now. But it doesn't do to upset one's own vanity.

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

Cold beer is bottled God.