Rage, rage against the dying of the light

Till skillnad från sist jag påstod att jag skulle bjuda på poesi, och istället gav er ett visdomsord från en filosof, har jag idag faktiskt plockat fram ett äkta poem från en tvättäkta poet, och han var därtill britt (nåja, walesare). Mer finkultur än så kan det inte bli utanför Frankrikes och Tjeckiens gränser. Mina damer och herrar, låt mig presentera en av 1900-talets mest inflytelserika poeter:


Dylan Thomas

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.