As he watched her go, he was crying. I asked him if there was anything I could do. He shook his head, but smiled and thanked me. ‘I am saying goodbye to my daughter for ever. I am old and I have an illness that will soon take its toll. My daughter lives a long way away. She has work to do, and so have I. We both know that when she returns it will be for my funeral.’

I said, ‘I heard you say, “I wish you enough”; what did you mean?’ He smiled again. ‘It’s a saying in our family, passed down through generations. I don’t quite know where it came from, but it’s precious to us.’ Then he closed his eyes a moment and spoke it from memory:

I wish you enough sun to keep your outlook bright. I wish you enough rain to appreciate the sun. I wish you enough happiness to keep your spirit strong. I wish you enough pain to make life’s joys seem precious. I wish you enough luck to satisfy your needs. I wish you enough loss to appreciate what you keep. I wish you enough hellos to help you through the final goodbye.

When he left, I wrote the words down. Now I have them by heart. And from my heart, I say:

My friends, I wish you enough.

Anon.

While I Slept

While I slept, while I slept and the night grew colder

She would come to my room, stepping softly

And draw a blanket about my shoulder

While I slept.

While I slept, while I slept in the dark, still heat

She would come to my bedside, stepping coolly

And smooth the twisted, troubled sheet

While I slept.

Now she sleeps, sleeps under quiet rain

While nights grow warm or nights grow colder.

And I wake, and sleep, and wake again

While she sleeps.

Robert Francis (1901–87)

‘Do not go gentle into that good night’

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 have 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 (1914–53)

Coat