| And do not go gentle into that good night
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| Old age should burn and rave at close of day
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| Rage, rage against the dying of the light
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| Though wise men at their end know dark is right
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| Because their words had forked no lightning
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| They do not go gentle into that good night
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| Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
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| Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay
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| Rage, rage against the dying of the light
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| Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight
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| And learn too late, they grieved it on its way
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| Do not go gentle into that good night
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| Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
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| Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay
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| Rage, rage against the dying of the light
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| And you, my father, there on the sad height
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| Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray
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| Do not go gentle into that good night
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| Rage, rage against the dying of the light |