“Do not go gentle into that good night,Old age should burn and rave at close of day;Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”

“Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rage at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light.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.Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light.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.Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light.And you, my father, there on the sad height, Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray. Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”

“Though wise men at their end know dark is right,Because their words had forked no lightning theyDo not go gentle into that good night.”

“In my craft or sullen artExercised in the still nightWhen only the moon ragesAnd the lovers lie abedWith all their griefs in their arms,I labour by singing lightNot for ambition or breadOr the strut and trade of charmsOn the ivory stagesBut for the common wagesOf their most secret heart.Not for the proud man apartFrom the raging moon I writeOn these spindrift pagesNor for the towering deadWith their nightingales and psalmsBut for the lovers, their armsRound the griefs of the ages,Who pay no praise or wagesNor heed my craft or art.”

“I have longed to move awayFrom the hissing of the spent lieAnd the old terrors' continual cryGrowing more terrible as the dayGoes over the hill into the deep sea;I have longed to move awayFrom the repetition of salutes,For there are ghosts in the airAnd ghostly echoes on paper,And the thunder of calls and notes.I have longed to move away but am afraid;Some life, yet unspent, might explodeOut of the old lie burning on the ground,And, crackling into the air, leave me half-blind.Neither by night's ancient fear,The parting of hat from hair,Pursed lips at the receiver,Shall I fall to death's feather.By these I would not care to die,Half convention and half lie.”

“One Christmas was so much like another, in those years around the sea-town corner now and out of all sound except the distant speaking of the voices I sometimes hear a moment before sleep, that I can never remember whether it snowed for six days and six nights when I was twelve or whether it snowed for twelve days and twelve nights when I was six.”

“Why do men think you can pick love up and re-light it like a candle? Women know when love is over.”