O thou the last fulfilment of life, Death,

my death, come and whisper to me!

   Day after day have I kept watch for

thee; for thee have I borne the joys 

and pangs of life.

   All that I am, that I have, that I hope 

and all my love have ever flowed towards 

thee in depth of secrecy. One final 

glance from thine eyes and my life will 

be ever thine own.

   The flowers have been woven and the

garland is ready for the bridegroom. 

After the wedding the bride shall leave

her home and meet her lord alone in the 

solitude of night.

On the day when death will knock at 

thy door what wilt thou offer to him?

   Oh, I will set before my guest the 

full vessel of my life-I will never let 

him go with empty hands.

   All the sweet vintage of all my 

autumn days and summer nights, all

the earnings and gleanings of my busy 

life will I place before him at the close

of my days when death will knock at 

my door.

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.

Because I could not stop for Death—
He kindly stopped for me—
The Carriage held but just Ourselves— 
And Immortality.

We slowly drove—He knew no haste
And I had put away
My labor and my leisure too,
For His Civility—

We passed the School, where Children strove
At Recess—in the Ring—
We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain—
We passed the Setting Sun—

Or rather—He passed us—
The Dews drew quivering and chill—
For only Gossamer, my Gown—
My Tippet—only Tulle—

We paused before a House that seemed
A Swelling of the Ground—
The Roof was scarcely visible—
The Cornice—in the Ground—

Since then—’tis Centuries—and yet
Feels shorter than the Day
I first surmised the Horses’ Heads
Were toward Eternity—