Lakhasly

Old Age and Mortality This poem is, at least in part, about the difficulties of old age.But, as the speaker hints when he calls the singing birds "those dying generations" and observes that the happy young "neglect / Monuments of unageing intellect," this world is also limited by its inability to accept the realities of aging. That is, the young are so self-absorbed, so wrapped up in these physical, bodily delights, that they can't yet appreciate their own mortality, and certainly can't achieve the kind of spiritual transcendence the speaker longs for. Indeed, an old man with a failing body can't even pretend to fit in there. The poem's very first line, "That is no country for old men," lets readers know that the speaker is totally at odds with this world.Because there is no "singing school," however, no one to teach the speaker's soul how to achieve such vibrancy, the speaker makes an imagined spiritual journey to the long-lost holy city of Byzantium. He's making this journey with his mind, not his body; he envisions leaving the body behind forever, in fact, and the power of his imagination helps him to move beyond his physical frailty. This again emphasizes the separation between the speaker's mortal body and his transcendent soul. Byzantium ceased to exist long ago (it is now modern-day Istanbul), and the "sages," or wise men, the speaker reaches out to are actually mosaics--real, famous artworks crafted from many tiny, often gilded (gold-covered) tiles.Even the word "that" separates the speaker from the country: it's something over there, something he doesn't belong to.

The speaker then focuses on the failures of his aging body, which he describes as "a tattered coat": not the substance of his real self, but just a garment he's wearing. The only way to salvage such a garment, in turn, is for the soul to "clap its hands and sing."The world is described through images of natural fertility and bounty: young people embracing, singing birds, vast schools of fish.

Old Age and Mortality
This poem is, at least in part, about the difficulties of old age. To the speaker, the inevitable failure of the aging body presents a choice: the elderly can either fade into husks of their former selves, or learn to escape the physical limitations of old age by beautifying their souls—and, eventually, upon dying, becoming something that isn’t tied to the human body at all. The poem thus implies a separation between the body and soul, and presents old age as both a burden and an opportunity for a kind of spiritual transcendence—a chance to leave the earthly world, and all its limitations, behind.

In the first stanza, the speaker vividly evokes the beautiful world of the young. The world is described through images of natural fertility and bounty: young people embracing, singing birds, vast schools of fish. This world is intensely focused on material pleasures and the creation of even more new life.

But, as the speaker hints when he calls the singing birds “those dying generations” and observes that the happy young “neglect / Monuments of unageing intellect,” this world is also limited by its inability to accept the realities of aging. That is, the young are so self-absorbed, so wrapped up in these physical, bodily delights, that they can't yet appreciate their own mortality, and certainly can't achieve the kind of spiritual transcendence the speaker longs for.

Indeed, an old man with a failing body can’t even pretend to fit in there. The poem's very first line, “That is no country for old men,” lets readers know that the speaker is totally at odds with this world. Even the word “that” separates the speaker from the country: it’s something over there, something he doesn’t belong to.

The speaker then focuses on the failures of his aging body, which he describes as “a tattered coat”: not the substance of his real self, but just a garment he’s wearing. The only way to salvage such a garment, in turn, is for the soul to “clap its hands and sing.” The soul itself thus seems to have a body—but a different kind of body, one that can’t fade and weaken over time.

Because there is no “singing school,” however, no one to teach the speaker's soul how to achieve such vibrancy, the speaker makes an imagined spiritual journey to the long-lost holy city of Byzantium. He's making this journey with his mind, not his body; he envisions leaving the body behind forever, in fact, and the power of his imagination helps him to move beyond his physical frailty. This again emphasizes the separation between the speaker's mortal body and his transcendent soul.

Byzantium ceased to exist long ago (it is now modern-day Istanbul), and the "sages," or wise men, the speaker reaches out to are actually mosaics—real, famous artworks crafted from many tiny, often gilded (gold-covered) tiles. As such, the speaker is basically imagining traveling to a long-dead holy city and talking to mosaic icons on a wall. But that's the point: these sages have transcended old age and mortality through becoming the materials of imagination and of art. They have left their frail, physical bodies behind.

The speaker intends to one day join them—and when he does, he’ll leave behind his body forever, and “never take / My bodily form from any natural thing.” In teaching his soul to imagine beyond the limits of his body, and eventually to leave it, he’ll learn to overcome mortality and old age.

Part of this transcendence will come through the art he makes. Indeed, this poem itself is both a kind of song and a kind of mosaic: it’s musical, and it’s made of many little pieces (words, that is) put together. The art that the speaker leaves behind is another way of surviving past the limits of his mortal body, and, like the golden bird he imagines becoming, will still “sing” to later generations and teach them the wisdom he himself has learned.