I was once a flowerBut every time I fell deeper in love with youThe more petals we're stolen from meUntil I was fully revealedAnd I couldn't hide the feelings anymore.
He comes; I hear him up the street--Bird of ill omen, flapping wideThe pinion of a printed sheet,His hoarse note scares the eventide.Of slaughter, theft, and suicideHe is the herald and the friend;Now he vociferates with pride--A double murder in Mile End!A hanging to his soul is sweet;His gloating fancy's fain to bideWhere human-freighted vessels meet,And misdirected trains collide.With Shocking Accidents supplied,He tramps the town from end to end.How often have we heard it cried--
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 theyDo not go gentle into that good night.Good men, the last wave by, crying how brightTheir 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 sightBlind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
To be able to see every side of every question;To be on every side, to be everything, to be nothing long;To pervert truth, to ride it for a purpose,To use great feelings and passions of the human familyFor base designs, for cunning ends,To wear a mask like the Greek actors—Your eight-page paper—behind which you huddle,Bawling through the megaphone of big type:“This is I, the giant.”Thereby also living the life of a sneak-thief,Poisoned with the anonymous wordsOf your clandestine soul.To scratch dirt over scandal for money,And exhume it to the winds for revenge,Or to sell papers,Crushing reputations, or bodies, if need be,