That is no country for old men. The young
will flame out, like shining from shook foil
-- Those dying generations -- at their song,
Crushed. Fish, flesh or fowl,
Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Caught in that sensual music all neglect
Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.
An aged man is but a paltry thing,
And for all this, nature is never spent;
Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing
Consume my heart away, sick with desire
And though the last lights come from the holy fire,
Oh, morning, gather me into the artifice of eternity.
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