From Yeats’ "Sailing to Byzantium"

September 6th, 2009

That is no country for old men. The young
In one another’s arms, pharm birds in the trees
- Those dying generations – at their song, order
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 unaging intellect.

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