A process in the weather of the heart
Turns damp to dry; the golden shot
Storms in the freezing tomb.

All all and all the dry worlds lever,
Stage of the ice, the solid ocean,
All from the oil, the pound of lava.

When the morning was waking over the war
He put on his clothes and stepped out and he died,
The locks yawned loose and a blast blew them wide,

And death shall have no dominion.
Dead men naked they shall be one
With the man in the wind and the west moon;

Before I knocked and flesh let enter,
With liquid hands tapped on the womb,
I who was shapeless as the water

One Christmas was so much like another, in those ye …
voices I sometimes hear a moment before sleep, that …
whether it snowed for twelve...

My tears are like the quiet drift
Of petals from some magic rose;
And all my grief flows from the rift

On almost the incendiary eve
Of several near deaths,
When one at the great least of your best loved

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.