"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."
"Dead love, by treason slain, lies stark,
White as a dead stark-stricken dove:
None that pass by him pause to mark
His heart, that strained and yearned and strove
As toward the sundawn strives the lark,
Is cold as all the old joy thereof.
Dead men, re-arisen from dust, may hark
When rings the trumpet blown above:
It will not raise from out the dark