Howdy, howdy! How’s everyone doing this lovely day? Things here are okay. We left the house on Monday for a couple of errands. Even tried going to an actual restaurant for the first time since March 2020, but the patio was closed, so screw that place. Home and Hot Pockets for the win! Anyway, it’s time for another poem. This is one Dad used to recite to me when I was little, especially when I was sick or going through surgery stuff. It’s probably why the villanelle is my favorite form. Without further ado… Dylan Thomas.

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night

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.