H.G. dropped in last night, inviting Miss Applesassy to hop in that confounded whirly bird of his and go for a ride. I was not sure I was up to the task as time travel can twist ones bun into gnarled knots, but he assured me the venture would be well worth the investment, “and would only take a second”.
So off we went in a whizzing whirling puff of dust to New York City 1950. We met up with a shy and mostly unknown Welsh poet who just arrived in The States for his first book tour, a gentleman by the name of Dylan Thomas.
Poor lad, he was not long for this world, and suffered much from his affections with the drink, but he did indeed leave us some lightning in his words.
Do not go gentle into that good night
by Dylan ThomasDo 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.
