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 gaay, (geeesh now gaay is a banned word - how about that??)
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.

From The Poems of Dylan Thomas

 

I am not to good on the meaning of poems but getting old is no fun and about when you have a huge fire burning bright, the fuel burns out.

 

Whodat, you seem to be a little depressed these last few weeks... everything OK? Are you contemplating your existance? Hey, getting old isn't so bad... when you turn 50, you can say anything you want and people just smile and ignore you... and you can pass gas in closed areas, and people will just chalk it up to the old guy syndrome... I like elevators and trains myself...and the young girls hang on you because they don't consider you a threat anymore.... what more could you want?

 

Do! I read it.
Hang in there Whodat!