Sailing to Byzantium

    t is no country for old men. the young

    In one anotrees

    - tions - at their song,

    the mackerel-crowded seas,

    Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long

    ever is begotten, born, and dies.

    Caug 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 t studying

    Monuments of its own magnificence;

    And the seas and come

    to ty of Byzantium.

    O sages standing in Gods holy fire

    As in the gold mosaic of a wall,

    Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,

    And be ters of my soul.

    Consume my  ah desire

    And fastened to a dying animal

    It kno  is; and gather me

    Into tifice of eternity.

    Once out of nature I sake

    My bodily form from any natural thing,

    But suchs make

    Of hammered gold and gold enamelling

    to keep a drowsy Emperor awake;

    Or set upon a golden bougo sing

    to lords and ladies of Byzantium

    Of , or passing, or to come.