Sailing to Byzantium

Poetry is my solace, and my refuge...

(WB Yeats)
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.

Comments

Megan and Ryan said…
sim mi lai aye? Chim.....
2:11 pm
bluebabe said…
it's one of my favourite poems, talking about the impermanence of life, even for the irrepressible young
2:37 pm
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