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 fowl， commend all summer long

    Whatever is begotten， born， and dies.

    Caught in that sensual music all neglect

    Monuments of unageing intellect.

    II

    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.

    III

    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.

    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 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.