Justinian Trees in Byzantium

I’m already missing my decks. Scrounging around for a deck this morning I had a poignant moment of missing them. For my trip and subsequent stay in a motel while searching for a home, I was going to take a mini deck, but it wasn’t thrilling me. While browsing about I saw the Byzantine Tarot again and decided to buy it for a good, old study of history while I’m in limbo. You can always count on John Matthews for a good read and study of history.


I was a bit surprised that the art was by Cilla Conway; it is so different from the Intuitive Tarot but she really nailed the style, and that was part of buying it as well. So, that’s me sorted for deck study on my new adventure in life. I shall be Sailing to Byzantium with Mr. Yeats, the Emperor Justinian, and John and Cilla.



The beauty part of this is to surround yourself with beauty, take care of yourself and your home, and also see the beauty within. I was reflecting on that yesterday, because after getting this house tidied and fixed up, looking beautiful, I realized that I should have done it years ago. If you actually see beauty around you, you reflect that, so take care of what you surround yourself with.

The first thing I thought of is with this card, was how soon Spring comes out on the west coast. Cherry trees are blossoming while we still shovel snow here in Ontario, so I felt that anticipation when viewing this card, because I’ll be out there to see those blossoms this year.

Is there anything to beat running under the cherry blossoms in the first green grass of Spring? No, unless it’s poetry.


Sailing to Byzantium
by W. B. Yeats

That is no country for old men. The young
In one another’s arms, birds in the trees
—Those dying generations—at their song,
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 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 seas and come
To the holy city of Byzantium.

O sages standing in God’s holy fire
As in the gold mosaic of a wall,
Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,
And be the 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 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.


Leave a Reply

Please log in using one of these methods to post your comment:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s