Sailing to Byzantium
Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long
Nor is there singing school but studying
To lords and ladies of Byzantium
Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing
Monuments of its own magnificence;
Monuments of unageing intellect.
And fastened to a dying animal
Of hammered gold and gold enamelling
Or set upon a golden bough to sing
A tattered coat upon a stick, unless
To the holy city of Byzantium.
Of what is past, or passing, or to come.
Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,
Into the artifice of eternity.
In one anothers arms, birds in the trees
It knows not what it is; and gather me
But such a 九九藏书网form as Grecian goldsmiths make
To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;
An aged man is but a paltry thing,
And therefore I have sailed the seas and come
Consume my heart away; sick with desire
As in the gold mosaic of a 九九藏书wall,
Caught in that sensual music all neglect
- Those dying generations - at their song,
THAT is no country for old men. The young
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Once out of nature I shall never take
Sailing to Byzantium
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My bodily form from any natural thing,
O sages standing in Gods holy fire
And be the singing-masters of my soul.
The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,
For every tatter in its mortal dress,