Sailing to Byzantium

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    <strong>Sailing to Byzantium</strong>

    THAT is no try for old men. The young

    In one anothers arms, birds irees

    - Those dying geions - at t<big></big>heir song,

    The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,

    Fish, flesh, or fowl, end all summer long

    Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.

    Caught in that sensual mus<mark></mark>ic all

    Mos 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<var></var> mortal dress,

    Nor is there singing school but studying

    Mos of its own magnifice;

    And therefore I have sailed the seas and e

    To the holy city of Byzantium.

    O ></a>sages standing in Gods holy fire

    As in the gold mosaic of a wall,

    e from the holy fire, perne in<bdo>..</bdo> a gyre,

    Ahe singing-masters of my soul.

    e my heart away; sick with desire

    And fasteo a dying animal

    It knows not what it is; and gather me

    Into the artifice of eternity.

    O of nature I shall ake

    My bodily form from any natural thing,

    But such a form as Gre 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 e.

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