| I |
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| 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. |
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| II |
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| 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. |
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| III |
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| 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. |
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| IV |
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| 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. |
| 1927 |