sailing to byzantium as a spiritual journey

First stanza 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 unaging intellect. Second stanza             An aged man […]