I

    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 fowl¹， commend all summer long

    Whatever is begotten²， born， and dies.

    Caught in that sensual music all neglect

    Monuments of unageing intellect.

    II

    An aged³ man is but a paltry⁴ thing，

    A tattered⁵ 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.

    III

    O sages⁶ standing⁷ in God‘s holy fire

    As in the gold mosaic⁸ 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 artifice⁹ of eternity¹⁰.

    IV

    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 drowsy¹¹ Emperor awake；

    Or set upon a golden bough¹² to sing

    To lords and ladies of Byzantium

    Of what is past， or passing， or to come.