“Sailing to Byzantium”

Across the silver-threaded seas of thought,  
Where ancient winds in whispered relics speak,  
My vessel, curious and weather-wrought,  
Pursues Byzantium's goldening mystique.  
There, domes ascend like prayers at break of day,  
By cypress, marble, sunlight overwrought,  
And minarets in trembling shadows sway  
Beside mosaics time itself forgot.

No country for the young, the mortal dream—  
Here wisdom’s fire burns in every wall,  
And every wave reflects a holy gleam  
From saints in tessellated aisles tall.  
I slip the nets of bone, of flesh and age,  
To seek the changeless in the ever-changing,  
Within that city’s sanctifying cage,  
Where spirit sings beyond flesh’s estranging.

O Byzantium—imperishable heart—  
Your golden icons light my restless soul,  
Enamelled saints, ineffable in art,  
Bid me cast off and let the past be whole.  
My mind, a painted bird with gilt for feather,  
Casts off the hour’s dim, deteriorating bands—  
To sail with thought and dream together,  
And fold eternity within my hands.

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