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Sailing to Byzantium
W. B. Yeats
1
That is no country for old man. The young
In one another's arms, birds in the trees
-Those dying generations - at their song,
The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowed seas,
Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Caught in that senual music all neglect
Monuments of unageing intellect.
2
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 itw own mangnificence;
And therefore I have sailed the seas and come
To the holy city of Byzantium.
3
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.
4
Once our 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 sng
To lords and ladies of Byzantium
Of what is past, or passing, or ho come.
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