"Do not go gently into that good night but rage, rage against the dying of the light."
"It is spring, moonless night in the small town, starless and bible-black, the cobbledstreets silent and the hunched courters'-and-rabbits' wood limping invisible down to the sloeblack, slow, black, crowblack, fishingboat-bobbing sea."
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Source: Under Milk Wood (1954) p. 1
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