| Sailing to Byzantium | Sailing to Byzantium | |
| 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 Byzantium 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. |
That is no country for old folk. But young Go arm in arm, and birds on high, ---That dying dynasty---still hard at song, And salmon-falls, and tuna schooling by, Fish, fauna, fowl, applaud all warm day long What was an ovum, now was born, and ... I Caught in that sultry music fail to find Signals of an always youthful mind. A fading man is but a paltry thing, A torn up coat upon a stick, if no Soul clap its hands and sing, and loudly sing For all that's torn about its mortal cloak Nor is its singing school but studying Glorious ruins of a past to gloat; So now I also sail our world and run To this holy city of Byzantium. O wisdom standing in God's holy glow As in this gold mosaic of a wall, Turn from that holy glow, turn so slow And touch a singing-chord off in my soul. Draw up my mind and body; sick with longing And stuck fast to a dying animal It knows not what it is; fold my lucidity Into illusions of infinity. And now unworldly I shall always slough My bodily form if it's a natural thing, And find a form of Attic goldsmith's stuff Thin foils of gold and gold in surfacing To stop a drowsy King from nodding off Or sit upon a bough of gold to sing To lords and madams of Byzantium Of what is past, or passing, or not run. |
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| William Butler Yeats | Put into nglish by John Collins and G.G.Strand |