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

Missy M said…
sim mi lai aye? Chim.....
bluebabe said…
it's one of my favourite poems, talking about the impermanence of life, even for the irrepressible young

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