Good Horses (and bad stolen poetry)

Good horses go not go gentle into that good night,
old mares should leap and neigh at close of day;
neigh, neigh against the dying of the light.

Though wise mares at their end know dark is right,
because their hooves had jumped no coffin they
do not go gentle into that good night.

Good mares, the last fence past, crying how bright
their frail deeds might have jumped in green grass,
neigh, neigh against the dying of the light.

Wild mares 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 mares, near death, who see with blinding sight
blind eyes could blaze like meteors and neigh,
rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my mare, there on the sad height,
curse, bless me now with your fierce ears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.