Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night by Dylan Thomas

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night

by Dylan Thomas

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.

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.

A very young Dylan Thomas

There is not much I will say about this poem except:

Dylan Thomas was a Welsh poet; this is his best-known poem but is by no means his only great poem

Many non-poets are familiar with this poem and all sorts of folks have memorized it for school, performance, or to improve memory; it is often cited as the most famous villanelle (in much the same way Elizabeth Bishop's "Sestina" is said to be the most famous sestina)

He was friends with American prose writer Shirley Jackson in the early 1950s (they both liked to smoke and drink and loved cats)

This poem is a villanelle, which is French form that focuses on repetition

Edward Arlington Robinson introduced villanelles to Americans in 1891; it has been popular with poets ever since

If you ask a poet for a poem about dying, this may not be the only one s/he gives you, but it will be in that small pack of poems

Thomas also wrote a radio play

This poem was written by the poet for/about his father, a teacher, who died when Thomas was 38 years old

Dylan Thomas himself died at the age of 39 after falling into a coma in NYC in 1953; he left behind a wife and three children

If you are not going through the emotions of this poem presently, then you have already or will someday--maybe not with a father or a parent, but with someone