"Do not go gentle into that good night"

The other day at lunch a friend mentioned the imminent passing of a relative who was coming up on 100 years old. 

From this unfortunate news we branched off to a discussion of aging and mortality. My friend said he didn't want to live to be that old, considering the low quality of life for most nonagenarians.

I respected his view--one I've heard many times before--and offered my own, namely the theory that for most of us, our physical erosion is so gradual that we can adapt to working with less. Old age is a long way out in the future; barring an unforeseen illness, I see myself sticking around as long as I can.

Which brought to mind one of my favorite poems these past several decades, a poem that followed me from a dramatic reading in college prep English to a prominent pushpinned spot on my dot.com era cubicle wall to this very moment.

Ladies and gentlemen, Dylan Thomas.

Do not go gentle into that good night

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.