Poetry Friday: The Dying of the Light

Just in the past week or so I've really begun to feel the shortening of days. I've been biking home from work at dusk. After showering I've been changing straight into pajamas. It's totally dark when I eat dinner. I've already started a countdown to spring, which is dumb because, well, it's October.

I've always loved fall—second-best after spring, anyway—but for some reason I haven't been enjoying it that much this year. The weather's been gorgeous, not a thing to complain about, but I'm so dreading winter. Last winter felt harder than usual. Of course, so did this past summer. Beautiful weather, but I was under a cloud the whole time.

Anyway, I know Dylan Thomas wasn't writing about seasonal affective disorder when he wrote this villanelle. But right now, in my own literal way, I'm feeling a lot of "Rage, rage against the dying of the light."

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.

You'll find this week's Poetry Friday round-up at Big A little a!