Rage, rage against the dying light

This world is half the devil's and my own, Daft with the drug that's smoking in a girl and curling round the bud that forks her eye.

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

Youth calls to age across the tired years: 'What have you found,' he cries, 'what have you sought?" 'What have you found,' age answers through his tears, 'What have you sought.

My education was the liberty I had to read indiscriminately and all the time, with my eyes hanging out.

I sang in my chains like the sea

If you want a definition of poetry, say: Poetry is what makes me laugh or cry or yawn, what makes my toenails twinkle, what makes me want to do this or that or nothing and let it go at that.