Do not go gentle into war's fell night
This age should flare at fame that's bought with blood;
Rage, rage against such dying of the light.

Though poor men fear pitch-dark alone's their right,
Because their pleas have waked no lightning flood,
They'll not go gentle into that black night.

Good men, who set war by, crying our plight
And frail deeds clenched against its bitter cud,
Would not go gentle back into that night.

Wild men who bred an unstemmed sun as might
And learned, too late, the terror in its bud,
Could not face gently that unending night.

'Great men' should see, even with squinting sight,
Or righteous eyes that blaze upon Nimrud,
Our age will rage, against their blood-black night.

Then each false leader, lodged on his sad height,
We will curse down in fierce tears of blood,
And not send gentle into that fell night -
But rage, and rage, to kindle still our light.

                    (Apologies to Dylan Thomas)