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.

To save your world you asked this man to die;

Would this man, could he see you now, ask why?

Around the corner I have a friend,

In this great city that has no end;

Yet days go by, and weeks rush on,

And before I know it a year is gone,

And I never see my old friend’s face,

For Life is a swift and terrible race.

He knows I like him just as well

As in the days when I rang his bell

And he rang mine. We were younger then,

And now we are busy, tired men:

Tired with playing a foolish game,

Tired with trying to make a name.

"Tomorrow," I say, "I will call on Jim,

Just to show that I’m thinking of him."

But tomorrow comes—and tomorrow goes,

And the distance between us grows and grows.

Around the corner!--yet miles away...

"Here’s a telegram, sir...." "Jim died today."

And that’s what we get, and deserve in the end:

Around the corner, a vanished friend.

Out of the night that covers me,

Black as the pit from pole to pole,

I thank whatever gods may be

For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance

I have not winced nor cried aloud.

Under the bludgeonings of chance

My head is bloody, but unbowed

Beyond this place of wrath and tears

Looms but the Horror of the shade,

And yet the menace of the years

Finds and shall find me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,

How charged with punishments the scroll.

I am the master of my fate:

I am the captain of my soul.

If I can stop one heart from breaking,

I shall not live in vain;

If I can ease one life the aching,

Or cool one pain,

Or help one fainting robin

Unto his nest again,

I shall not live in vain.

A Master in the art of living draws no sharp distinction between

their work and their play,

their labour and their leisure,

their mind and their body,

their education and their recreation.

They hardly know which is which.

They simply pursue their vision of excellence

through whatever they are doing

and leave others to determine

whether they are working or playing.

To themselves, they always seem to be doing both."

--- Anonymous

THE INVITATION

It doesn't interest me what you do for a living.

I want to know what you ache for,

And if you dare to dream of meeting your heart's longing.

It doesn't interest me how old you are.

I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love,

For your dreams, for the adventure of being alive.

It doesn't interest me what planets are squaring your moon.

I want to know if you have touched the center of your own sorrow,

If you have been opened by life's betrayals or

Have become shriveled and closed from fear of further pain!

I want to know if you can sit with pain, mine or your own,

Without moving to hide it or fade it or fix it.

I want to know if you can be with joy, mine or your own,

If you can dance with wildness and let the ectasy fill you

To the tips of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be

Careful, be realistic, or to remember the limitations of being human.

It doesn't interest me if the story you're telling me is true.

I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself;

If you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul.

I want to know if you can be faithless

And therefore be trustworthy.

I want to know if you can see beauty

Even when it is not pretty every day,

And if you can source your life from God's presence.

I want to know if you can live with failure, yours and mine,

And still stand on the edge of a lake and shout to the silver of the full moon, "Yes"!

It doesn't interest me to know where you live

Or how much money you have.

I want to know if you can get up after the night of grief and despair,

Weary and bruised to the bone, and do what needs to be done

For the children.

It doesn't interest me who you are, how you came to be here.

I want to know if you will stand in the center of the fire with me

And not shrink back.

It doesn't interest me where or what or with whom you have studied.

I want to know what sustains you from the inside

When all else falls away.

I want to know if you can be alone with yourself,

And if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments.

Oriah Mountain Dreamer (a Native American Elder)