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 that
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.
Dylan
Thomas
(País
de Gales 1914 – USA 1953)
Sem comentários:
Enviar um comentário