Chapter 10 Sailing to Byzantium

Sailing to Byzantium That's not the country of old people.young people embracing each other; the dying generation, The birds in the trees are engaged in their singing; Cascades of fish, mackerel-stuffed seas, Fish, beast, or bird, all summer praises Everything that is born and dies exists. Indulging in the music of the senses, all neglected An eternal monument to reason. A decrepit old man is just a waste, It was a tattered coat on a stick, Unless the soul claps its hands and sings, for its Every crack of the skin sings louder; But there are no singing schools, only To study its splendor recorded in monuments,

So I've come across the ocean Sacred castle of Byzantium. O wise men!Standing in the divine fire of God, It seems to be a fresco inlaid with gold carvings, Come out of the divine fire, spin in the air, Please be a singing teacher for my soul. Burn my heart out, it's tied in a In dying flesh, corrupted by desire, I don't know what it was; please hurry Gather me into a timeless arrangement of art. Once out of nature, I no longer Any natural object takes my shape, And as long as Greek goldsmiths used gold glaze and patterns of hammered gold, Supplies sleepy emperors to keep awake;

Or sing on a golden bough all past, present and future To the nobles and ladies of Byzantium. Translated by Cha Liangzheng