The Byzantine Tarot for Pc

Sailing to Byzantium W. B. Yeats, 1865 - 1939 That is no country for old men. the app young In one another’s arms, birds in the app trees —Those dying generations—at their song, the app salmon-falls, the app 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. An aged man is but a paltry thing, A tattered coat upon a stick, unless Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing For every tatter in its mortal dress, Nor is there singing school but studying Monuments of its own magnificence; And therefore I have sailed the app seas and come To the app holy city of Byzantium. O sages standing in God’s holy fire As in the app gold mosaic of a wall, Come from the app holy fire, perne in a gyre, And be the app singing-masters of my soul. Consume my heart away; sick with desire And fastened to a dying animal It knows not what it is; and gather me Into the app artifice of eternity. Once out of nature I shall never take My bodily form from any natural thing, But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make Of hammered gold and gold enamelling To keep a drowsy Emperor awake; Or set upon a golden bough to sing To lords and ladies of Byzantium Of what is past, or passing, or to come.