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Beamed from the Saucer Pod By
Sailing To Byzantium IThat is no country for old men. The youngIn 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 longWhatever is begotten, born, and dies.Caught in that sensual music all neglectMonuments of unaging intellect. IIAn aged man is but a paltry thing,A tattered coat upon a stick, unlessSoul clap its hands and sing, and louder singFor every tatter in its mortal dress,Nor is there singing school but studyingMonuments of its own magnificence;And therefore I have sailed the seas and comeTo the holy city of Byzantium. IIIO sages standing in God's holy fireAs 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 desireAnd fastened to a dying animalIt knows not what it is; and gather me Into the artifice of eternity. IVOnce out of nature I shall never takeMy bodily form from any natural thing,But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths makeOf hammered gold and gold enamellingTo keep a drowsy Emperor awake;Or set upon a golden bough to singTo lords and ladies of ByzantiumOf what is past, or passing, or to come. William Butler Yeats
If you're the same trouble maker that tried to start shit with Stella Blue last time, it's no longer permitted, nor is it going to slip through as you can see.
WOW! s.o.b.--not again??! Thank you, Visible for intercepting--whatever was gonna be the vile comment. Loved your radio show! Am listening to others from the old archives, too. Blessings, Viz.
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