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.
When one burns one's bridges, what a very nice fire it makes.
He who seeks rest finds boredom. He who seeks work finds rest.
Nothing grows in our garden, only washing. And babies.
The land of my fathers. My fathers can have it.
Do not go gently into that good night but rage, rage against the dying of the light.