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