A poetic response to “Sailing to Byzantium” By William Butler Yeats
I.
That is a country only for old men. The young
In one another’s arms, birds in the trees,
– Undying generations – at their song,
Fish, flesh or fowl, begot and beget all summer long
Screaming infinitude, roaring over every new
Unending pleasure.
II.
An aged man is the paltry thing,
That claps his hands, sing, and louder sing
To hear song fade and sweeter
For each echo into amnesia when song
Passes over the horizon of its birth
And thus fathoms an end, after all.
Do not sail to Byzantium.
III.
Witless sirens standing in God’s holy fire
As in the gold mosaic of a wall, will
Consume your heart away; sick with desire
And fastened to a dying animal and gather you
Into the artifice of eternity. They know not what it is:
IV.
Love. Once out of nature, you shall
Neglect to swim up falls and struggle
No longer to crowd seas, nor sing
Tunes for us, who breathe and
Breathe into each others lips.
A golden bird set upon a golden bough
Sings not music like yours. Like a child,
it does not imagine its breath
ends. Song is labored sung by decaying lungs,
And ring not like hammered gold but searing light,
Eating itself to bright, hot star-death.
V.
Gods beckon you to glory sly,
Jealous wretched that they never might
love like mortal animals do.
Do not sail to Byzantium
If I cannot sail with you.