Tuesday, March 18, 2014

Tuesday Poem: Sailing to Byzantium by W.B. Yeats

Sailing To Byzantium


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.


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.


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.


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.

More poems at The Tuesday Poem.


Penelope said...

Still has power to surprise, that poem. The last stanza still mystifies me!

Thanks for posting.

Zireaux said...

Great selection, Harvey. Fits in well with the week's other posts, too. So much sound and song in Yeats. I hope Byzantium doesn't ever enact a policy of "turning back the boats" on desperate immigrants such as myself, "sick with desire" for golden boughs and salmon-falls.