That is no country for old men. The young_x000D_
In one another’s arms, birds in the trees_x000D_
—Those dying generations—at their song,_x000D_
The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,_x000D_
Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long_x000D_
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies._x000D_
Caught in that sensual music all neglect_x000D_
Monuments of unageing intellect._x000D_
_x000D_
An aged man is but a paltry thing,_x000D_
A tattered coat upon a stick, unless_x000D_
Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing_x000D_
For every tatter in its mortal dress,_x000D_
Nor is there singing school but studying_x000D_
Monuments of its own magnificence;_x000D_
And therefore I have sailed the seas and come_x000D_
To the holy city of Byzantium._x000D_
_x000D_
O sages standing in God’s holy fire_x000D_
As in the gold mosaic of a wall,_x000D_
Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,_x000D_
And be the singing-masters of my soul._x000D_
Consume my heart away; sick with desire_x000D_
And fastened to a dying animal_x000D_
It knows not what it is; and gather me_x000D_
Into the artifice of eternity._x000D_
_x000D_
Once out of nature I shall never take_x000D_
My bodily form from any natural thing,_x000D_
But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make_x000D_
Of hammered gold and gold enamelling_x000D_
To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;_x000D_
Or set upon a golden bough to sing_x000D_
To lords and ladies of Byzantium_x000D_
Of what is past, or passing, or to come.