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
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.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-BDTMo-yIrw&feature=related