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Miscellaneous writing

Sailing to Byzantium

Of what is past, or passing, or to come

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‘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 macerel-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.’

first stanza.

WB Yeats from The Collected Poems [1973], Macmillan, London, p.217.

By John Pitt

Artist and Creative

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