“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 unageing intellect.”
W. B. Yeats: “Sailing to Byzantium” (1926)
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