That is no country for old men. The young In
one another’s arms, birds in the trees -
Those dying generations - at their song, The
salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas, Fish,
flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long Whatever
is begotten, born, and dies. Caught
in that sensual music all neglect Monuments
of unageing intellect. An
aged man is but a paltry thing, A
tattered coat upon a stick, unless Soul
clap its hands and sing, and louder sing For
every tatter in its mortal dress, Nor
is there singing school but studying Monuments
of its own magnificence; And
therefore I have sailed the seas and come To
the holy city of Byzantium. O
sages standing in God’s holy fire As
in the gold mosaic of a wall, Come
from the holy fire, perne in a gyre, And
be the singing-masters of my soul. Consume
my heart away; sick with desire And
fastened to a dying animal It
knows not what it is; and gather me Into
the artifice of eternity. Once
out of nature I shall never take My
bodily form from any natural thing, But
such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make Of
hammered gold and gold enamelling To
keep a drowsy Emperor awake; Or
set upon a golden bough to sing To
lords and ladies of Byzantium Of what is past, or passing, or to come. |
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