No Country for Old Men

Sailing to Byzantium by William Butler 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.

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.
 
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In youth there is the feeling that things are all happening for the first time.

In old age there is the feeling that things are all happening over and over.

This mans story is the story of a cop who has seen far to many things repete.

This country is no country for old men.
 
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.


Growing old and knowing the world is a great burden that many do not do well.

I know it will likely fly over the heads of the youth on this site but maybe just one will be able to hold the grain of truth that this movie and this poem speak of.

To see the world in its reality without averting your eyes while also keeping the heart of your youthful hopes beating in your being, which like the poem says is fastened to a dying animal, is a great art.

I have known few who managed the task.
 
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