From Yeats' "Sailing to Byzantium"

That is no country for old men. The youngIn one another's arms, pharm birds in the trees - Those dying generations - at their song, order 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.