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.
