That is no country for old farts. 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