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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.
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