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W.B. Yeats, 1926

<div style="text-align:center">
'''I'''

That is no country for old men. The young<br />
In one another's arms, birds in their trees<br />
&#151; Those dying generations &#151; at their song,<br />
The salmon-falls, the mackrel-crowded seas,<br />
Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long<br />
Whatever is begotten, born and dies.<br />
Caught in that sensual music all neglect<br />
Monuments of unaging intellect.

'''II'''

An aged man is but a paltry thing,<br />
A tattered coat upon a stick, unless<br />
Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing<br />
For every tatter in its mortal dress,<br />
Nor is there singing school but studying<br />
Monuments of its own magnificence;<br />
And therefore I have sailed the seas and come<br />
To the holy city of Byzantium.

'''III'''

O sages standing in God's holy fire<br />
As in the gold mosaic of a wall,<br />
Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,<br />
And be the singing-masters of my soul.<br />
Consume my heart away; sick with desire<br />
And fastened to a dying animal<br />
It knows not what it is; and gather me<br />
Into the artifice of eternity.

'''IV'''

Once out of nature I shall never take<br />
My bodily form from any natural thing,<br />
But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make<br />
Of hammered gold and gold enamelling<br />
To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;<br />
Or set upon a golden bough to sing<br />
To lords and ladies of Byzantium<br />
Of what is past, or passing, or to come.
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