This week the poetry I taught my class was centered around the theme of “Death.” It’s listed in the syllabus as such, and this is the part of the semester I’ve always taught that subject.

This time, though, it was different.

This time, I had a student whose father had recently died.

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.

I hope that, instead of just bringing more pain, the poetry helped the student to find strength.

("Do not go gentle into that good night," Dylan Thomas, 1951)