Gentle life, gentle death

I didn't discover this poem until about 5 years ago, and it was in the most unlikely of places. I was talking to some guy at UPS (late night shift) about Thoreau's Walden. Now, for the life of me I can't imagine why we were discussing Thoreau...late night UPSers would rather discuss their next joint or the latest video game that sucked weeks from their lives. But nonetheless, I was quoting Thoreau to this dude, and he became still, thought for a moment, looked up into my eyes and responded with the most intelligent line he remembered from his late literature class: "Don't Go Gentle Into That Good Night." My face went numb (profundity does that to me). Uh...where did that come from? I totally got it. I felt like I tripped over a lump of gold jutting out of the spit-strewn floors in that dark place.

I looked it up, and discovered Dylan Thomas, the master of a poem of such probing depth and relentless challenge that now it hangs above my desk, constantly in my view. It stings even now when I read it ("Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way..."), but the sting of NOT remembering to savor, think, act "in accordance with the best thing in us" (Aristotle) would ultimately nick a spiritual artery. Let it be known, I want to know peace, but not peace at any cost. I want rest, but I don't want to be a sleepwalker. I want to die courageously, but some literal quietness wouldn't be all that bad. Figuratively, however, I want my death to be a roar. I don't want to 'stop' before I die. I want to love every moment of mortal life, be grateful for each breath and the beauty (or potential for beauty) all around me. I want to burn bright to the last--"rage against the dying of the light."

Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night

By Dylan Thomas 1914–1953

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.