That is No Country for Old Men

O Sages Standing in God’s Holy Fire

A Tattered Coat Upon a Stick

For Every Tatter in Its Mortal Dress

An Aged Man is But a Paltry Thing

Commend All Summer Long

Fish, Flesh, or Fowl

Whatever is Begotten, Born, and Dies

The Young in One Another’s Arms

Monuments of Unageing Intellect

It Knows Not What It Is

From Any Natural Thing

Therefore I Have Sailed the Seas and Come

To the Holy City

Such a Form As Grecian Goldsmiths Make

To Keep a Drowsy Emperor Awake

To Lords and Ladies

From Hammered Gold and Gold Enamelling

Nor is There Singing-School But Studying

The Salmon-Falls, the Mackerel-Crowded Seas

Fastened to a Dying Animal

Come From the Holy Fire

Perne in a Gyre

Gather Me Into the Artifice of Eternity

Consume My Heart Away

Be the Singing-Masters of My Soul

Set Upon a Golden Bough to Sing

Soul Clap its Hands and Sing

Caught in That Sensual Music

My Bodily Form

As in the Gold Mosaic of a Wall

Sick With Desire

Of What is Past

Or Passing

Or To Come