Out of the night that covers me, Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
Take this kiss upon the brow! And, in parting from you now,
Some say the world will end in fire, Some say in ice.
I do not love you except because I love you; I go from loving to not loving you,
Do not stand at my grave and weep I am not there. I do not sleep.
Remember me when I am gone away, Gone far away into the silent land;
I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
Well, son, I'll tell you: Life for me ain't been no crystal stair.
When I am an old woman I shall wear purple With a red hat which doesn't go, and doesn't suit me.
Over hill, over dale, Thorough bush, thorough brier,
I was angry with my friend: I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
'Hope' is the thing with feathers— That perches in the soul—
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
I think that I shall never see A poem lovely as a tree.
Don't go far off, not even for a day, because -- because -- I don't know how to say it: a day is long
Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Out of the night that covers me, Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
Take this kiss upon the brow! And, in parting from you now,
Some say the world will end in fire, Some say in ice.
I do not love you except because I love you; I go from loving to not loving you,
Do not stand at my grave and weep I am not there. I do not sleep.
Remember me when I am gone away, Gone far away into the silent land;
I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
Well, son, I'll tell you: Life for me ain't been no crystal stair.
When I am an old woman I shall wear purple With a red hat which doesn't go, and doesn't suit me.
Over hill, over dale, Thorough bush, thorough brier,
I was angry with my friend: I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
'Hope' is the thing with feathers— That perches in the soul—
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
I think that I shall never see A poem lovely as a tree.
Don't go far off, not even for a day, because -- because -- I don't know how to say it: a day is long
Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day;