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.
And may, when Luna is high
and midnight is here, that Sol
(our glorious Sun in the Heavens)
rage a battle for the sky up there
and declare at dawn the new day!
Until then: let the crickets chirp,
the crow s croak about forestry,
the prey have a well rested night
and Luna’s dark blanket the Earth
to let the World rest just a bit now.