Oh, how I long for those mellow autumn evenings, sun setting over Central Park, light turning golden before turning red before turning purple before turning blue…
October 19th, 2017
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.
Dylan Thomas
June 25th, 2017
May 1st, 2017
Writer
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