Come away, O human child: To the waters and the wild with a fairy, hand in hand, For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

Though I am old with wandering Through hollow lands and hilly lands, I will find out where she has gone, And kiss her lips and take her hands; And walk among long dappled grass, And pluck till time and times are done The silver apples of the moon, The golden apples of the sun.

Cast a cold eye on life, on death Horseman pass by

Nor dread nor hope attend a dying animal; a man awaits his end dreading and hoping all.

I heard the old, old, men say 'all that's beautiful drifts away, like the waters.'

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.

Ecstasy is from the contemplation of things vaster than the individual and imperfectly seen perhaps, by all those that still live.