into that good night

I have about fifteen minutes until my Doctor Who download finishes, and then it will be time for Steven Moffat and Eleven. I am incredibly excited -- and less nervous than I was, because twitter reports awesome -- and not refreshing my flist until I've watched the episode, which I am totally going to do in the one free hour I have today, before I start prepping for my dinner guests.

But that means that this moment, right here, is the last time I can post this poem, and have it be about Ten.

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.

~Dylan Thomas (1914-1953), "Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night".

Good-bye for real, Tenth Doctor. You drove me crazy, and made me really mad, and I'm looking forward to the next guy, but I loved you, and I'm going to miss you. ♥