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.

The years like great black oxen tread the world, and God, the herdsman goads them on behind, and I am broken by their passing feet.

When I clamber to the heights of sleep, Or when I grow excited with wine, suddenly I meet your face.

If what I say resonates with you, it's merely because we're branches of the same tree.

Man has created death.

And God stands winding His lonely horn, And time and the world are ever in flight.

Only the wasteful virtues earn the sun.