{"product_id":"selected-poems-of-w-h-auden-isbn-9780307278081","title":"Selected Poems of W. H. Auden","description":"This significantly expanded edition of W. H. Auden’s \u003ci\u003eSelected Poems \u003c\/i\u003eadds twenty poems to the hundred in the original edition, broadening its focus to better reflect the enormous wealth of form, rhetoric, tone, and content in Auden’s work. Newly included are such favorites as “Funeral Blues” and other works that represent Auden’s lighter, comic side, giving a fuller picture of the range of his genius. Also new are brief notes explaining references that may have become obscure to younger generations of readers and a revised introduction that draws on recent additions to knowledge about Auden.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs in the original edition, the new \u003ci\u003eSelected Poems \u003c\/i\u003emakes available the preferred original versions of some thirty poems that Auden revised later in life, making it the best source for enjoying the many facets of Auden’s art in one volume.\u003ci\u003eNote to the Expanded Edition \u003c\/i\u003exiii\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eIntroduction \u003c\/i\u003exv\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e1. Who stands, the crux left of the watershed \u003cbr\u003e2. From the very first coming down \u003cbr\u003e3. Control of the passes was, he saw, the key \u003cbr\u003e4. Taller to-day, we remember similar evenings \u003cbr\u003e5. Watch any day his nonchalant pauses, see \u003cbr\u003e6. Will you turn a deaf ear \u003cbr\u003e7. Sir, no man’s enemy, forgiving all \u003cbr\u003e8. It was Easter as I walked in the public gardens \u003cbr\u003e9. Since you are going to begin to-day \u003cbr\u003e10. Consider this and in our time \u003cbr\u003e11. This lunar beauty \u003cbr\u003e12. To ask the hard question is simple \u003cbr\u003e13. Doom is dark and deeper than any sea-dingle \u003cbr\u003e14. What’s in your mind, my dove, my coney \u003cbr\u003e15. “O where are you going?” said reader to rider \u003cbr\u003e16. Though aware of our rank and alert to obey orders \u003cbr\u003e17. O Love, the interest itself in thoughtless Heaven \u003cbr\u003e18. O what is that sound which so thrills the ear \u003cbr\u003e19. Hearing of harvests rotting in the valleys \u003cbr\u003e20. Out on the lawn I lie in bed \u003cbr\u003e21. A shilling life will give you all the facts \u003cbr\u003e22. Our hunting fathers told the story \u003cbr\u003e23. Easily, my dear, you move, easily your head \u003cbr\u003e24. The Summer holds: upon its glittering lake \u003cbr\u003e25. Now through night’s caressing grip \u003cbr\u003e26. O for doors to be open and an invite with gilded edges \u003cbr\u003e27. Look, stranger, at this island now \u003cbr\u003e28. Now the leaves are falling fast \u003cbr\u003e29. Underneath the abject willow \u003cbr\u003e30. Dear, though the night is gone \u003cbr\u003e31. Fish in the unruffled lakes \u003cbr\u003e32. Casino \u003cbr\u003e33. Funeral Blues \u003cbr\u003e34. Journey to Iceland \u003cbr\u003e35. “O who can ever gaze his fill” \u003cbr\u003e36. Lay your sleeping head, my love \u003cbr\u003e37. Spain \u003cbr\u003e38. Johnny \u003cbr\u003e39. Orpheus \u003cbr\u003e40. Miss Gee \u003cbr\u003e41. Wrapped in a yielding air, beside \u003cbr\u003e42. Dover \u003cbr\u003e43. As I walked out one evening \u003cbr\u003e44. Oxford \u003cbr\u003e45. O Tell Me the Truth About Love \u003cbr\u003e46. In Time of War \u003cbr\u003e47. The Capital \u003cbr\u003e48. Museé des Beaux Arts \u003cbr\u003e49. Epitaph on a Tyrant \u003cbr\u003e50. In Memory of W. B. Yeats \u003cbr\u003e51. Refugee Blues \u003cbr\u003e52. The Unknown Citizen \u003cbr\u003e53. Calypso \u003cbr\u003e54. September 1, 1939 \u003cbr\u003e55. Law, say the gardeners, is the sun \u003cbr\u003e56. In Memory of Sigmund Freud \u003cbr\u003e57. Eyes look into the well \u003cbr\u003e58. Lady, weeping at the crossroads \u003cbr\u003e59. Song for St. Cecilia’s Day \u003cbr\u003e60. The Quest \u003cbr\u003e61. But I Can’t \u003cbr\u003e62. In Sickness and in Health \u003cbr\u003e63. Leap Before You Look \u003cbr\u003e64. Jumbled in the common box \u003cbr\u003e65. Atlantis \u003cbr\u003e66. At the Grave of Henry James \u003cbr\u003e67. Mundus et Infans \u003cbr\u003e68. The Lesson \u003cbr\u003e69. The Sea and the Mirror \u003cbr\u003e70. Noon \u003cbr\u003e71. Lament for a Lawgiver \u003cbr\u003e72. Under Which Lyre \u003cbr\u003e73. The Fall of Rome \u003cbr\u003e74. In Praise of Limestone \u003cbr\u003e75. A Household \u003cbr\u003e76. Song \u003cbr\u003e77. A Walk After Dark \u003cbr\u003e78. Memorial for the City \u003cbr\u003e79. Under Sirius \u003cbr\u003e80. Their Lonely Betters \u003cbr\u003e81. Nocturne I \u003cbr\u003e82. Fleet Visit \u003cbr\u003e83. The Shield of Achilles \u003cbr\u003e84. The Willow-Wren and the Stare \u003cbr\u003e85. Epitaph for the Unknown Soldier \u003cbr\u003e86. Nocturne II \u003cbr\u003e87. Bucolics \u003cbr\u003e88. Horae Canonicae \u003cbr\u003e89. Homage to Clio \u003cbr\u003e90. The Old Man’s Road \u003cbr\u003e91. The Song \u003cbr\u003e92. First Things First \u003cbr\u003e93. The More Loving One \u003cbr\u003e94. Friday’s Child \u003cbr\u003e95. Good-bye to the Mezzogiorno \u003cbr\u003e96. Dame Kind \u003cbr\u003e97. You \u003cbr\u003e98. A Change of Air \u003cbr\u003e99. After Reading a Child’s Guide to Modern Physics \u003cbr\u003e100. On the Circuit \u003cbr\u003e101. Et in Arcadia Ego \u003cbr\u003e102. Thanksgiving for a Habitat \u003cbr\u003e103. Epithalamium \u003cbr\u003e104. Amor Loci \u003cbr\u003e105. Profile \u003cbr\u003e106. Fairground \u003cbr\u003e107. River Profile \u003cbr\u003e108. Prologue at Sixty \u003cbr\u003e109. Forty Years On \u003cbr\u003e110. Ode to Terminus \u003cbr\u003e111. August 1968 \u003cbr\u003e112. A New Year Greeting \u003cbr\u003e113. Moon Landing \u003cbr\u003e114. Old People’s Home \u003cbr\u003e115. Talking to Myself \u003cbr\u003e116. A Shock \u003cbr\u003e117. A Lullaby \u003cbr\u003e118. Aubade \u003cbr\u003e119. A Thanksgiving \u003cbr\u003e120. Archaeology 3\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eA Note on the Text \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eExplanatory Notes \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eIndex of Titles and First Lines \u003c\/i\u003eW. H. Auden (1907-73) was born in York, England, and educated at Oxford. During the 1930s he was the leader of a left-wing literary group that included Christopher Isherwood and Stephen Spender. With Isherwood he wrote three verse plays. He lived in Germany during the early days of Nazism, and was a stretcher-bearer for the Republicans during the Spanish Civil War. Auden's first volume of poetry appeared in 1930. Later volumes include \u003ci\u003eSpain\u003c\/i\u003e (1937), \u003ci\u003eNew Year Letter\u003c\/i\u003e (1941), \u003ci\u003eFor the Time Being\u003c\/i\u003e, a \u003ci\u003eChristmas Oratorio\u003c\/i\u003e (1945), \u003ci\u003eThe Age of Anxiety\u003c\/i\u003e (1947; Pulitzer Prize), \u003ci\u003eNones\u003c\/i\u003e (1951), \u003ci\u003eThe Shield of Achilles\u003c\/i\u003e (1955), \u003ci\u003eHomage to Clio \u003c\/i\u003e(1960), \u003ci\u003eAbout the House\u003c\/i\u003e (1965), \u003ci\u003eEpistle of a Godson\u003c\/i\u003e (1972), and \u003ci\u003eThank You, Fog\u003c\/i\u003e (1974). His other works include the libretto, with his companion Chester Kallman, for Stravinsky's opera \u003ci\u003eThe Rake's Progress\u003c\/i\u003e (1953); \u003ci\u003eA Certain World: A Commonplace Book\u003c\/i\u003e (1970); and \u003ci\u003eThe Dyer's Hand and Other Essays\u003c\/i\u003e (1968). In 1939 Auden moved to the United States and became a citizen in 1946, and beginning that year taught at a number of American colleges and universities. From 1956 to 1961 he was professor of poetry at Oxford. Subsequently he lived in a number of countries, including Italy and Austria, and in 1971 he returned to England. He was awarded the National Medal for Literature in 1967.1\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWho stands, the crux left of the watershed,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOn the wet road between the chafing grass\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBelow him sees dismantled washing-floors,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSnatches of tramline running to the wood,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAn industry already comatose,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eYet sparsely living. A ramshackle engine\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAt Cashwell raises water; for ten years\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt lay in flooded workings until this,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIts latter office, grudgingly performed,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd further here and there, though many dead\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLie under the poor soil, some acts are chosen\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTaken from recent winters; two there were\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCleaned out a damaged shaft by hand, clutching\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe winch the gale would tear them from; one died\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDuring a storm, the fells impassable,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNot at his village, but in wooden shape\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThrough long abandoned levels nosed his way\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd in his final valley went to ground.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGo home, now, stranger, proud of your young stock,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eStranger, turn back again, frustrate and vexed:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThis land, cut off, will not communicate,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBe no accessory content to one\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAimless for faces rather there than here.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBeams from your car may cross a bedroom wall,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThey wake no sleeper; you may hear the wind\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eArriving driven from the ignorant sea\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTo hurt itself on pane, on bark of elm\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhere sap unbaffled rises, being Spring;\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut seldom this. Near you, taller than grass,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEars poise before decision, scenting danger.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAugust 1927\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e2\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFrom the very first coming down\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eInto a new valley with a frown\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBecause of the sun and a lost way,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eYou certainly remain: to-day\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI, crouching behind a sheep-pen, heard\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTravel across a sudden bird,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCry out against the storm, and found\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe year's arc a completed round\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd love's worn circuit re-begun,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEndless with no dissenting turn.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShall see, shall pass, as we have seen\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe swallow on the tile, Spring's green\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePreliminary shiver, passed\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA solitary truck, the last\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOf shunting in the Autumn. But now\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTo interrupt the homely brow,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThought warmed to evening through and through\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eYour letter comes, speaking as you,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSpeaking of much but not to come.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNor speech is close nor fingers numb,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIf love not seldom has received\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAn unjust answer, was deceived.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI, decent with the seasons, move\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDifferent or with a different love,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNor question overmuch the nod,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe stone smile of this country god\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat never was more reticent,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAlways afraid to say more than it meant.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDecember 1927\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e3\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eControl of the passes was, he saw, the key\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTo this new district, but who would get it?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe, the trained spy, had walked into the trap\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFor a bogus guide, seduced with the old tricks.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAt Greenhearth was a fine site for a dam\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd easy power, had they pushed the rail\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSome stations nearer. They ignored his wires.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe bridges were unbuilt and trouble coming.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe street music seemed gracious now to one\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFor weeks up in the desert. Woken by water\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRunning away in the dark, he often had\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eReproached the night for a companion\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDreamed of already. They would shoot, of course,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eParting easily who were never joined.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJanuary 1928\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e4\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTaller to-day, we remember similar evenings,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWalking together in the windless orchard\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhere the brook runs over the gravel, far from the glacier.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAgain in the room with the sofa hiding the grate,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLook down to the river when the rain is over,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSee him turn to the window, hearing our last\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOf Captain Ferguson.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt is seen how excellent hands have turned to commonness.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOne staring too long, went blind in a tower,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOne sold all his manors to fight, broke through, and faltered.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNights come bringing the snow, and the dead howl\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eUnder the headlands in their windy dwelling\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBecause the Adversary put too easy questions\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOn lonely roads.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut happy now, though no nearer each other,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe see the farms lighted all along the valley;\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDown at the mill-shed the hammering stops\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd men go home.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNoises at dawn will bring\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFreedom for some, but not this peace\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNo bird can contradict: passing, but is sufficient now\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFor something fulfilled this hour, loved or endured.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMarch 1928\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e5\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWatch any day his nonchalant pauses, see\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis dextrous handling of a wrap as he\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSteps after into cars, the beggar's envy.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"There is a free one,\" many say, but err.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe is not that returning conqueror,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNor ever the poles' circumnavigator.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut poised between shocking falls on razor-edge\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHas taught himself this balancing subterfuge\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOf the accosting profile, the erect carriage.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe song, the varied action of the blood\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWould drown the warning from the iron wood\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWould cancel the inertia of the buried:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTravelling by daylight on from house to house\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe longest way to the intrinsic peace,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWith love's fidelity and with love's weakness.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMarch 1929\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e6\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWill you turn a deaf ear\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTo what they said on the shore,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eInterrogate their poises\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn their rich houses;\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOf stork-legged heaven-reachers\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOf the compulsory touchers\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe sensitive amusers\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd masked amazers?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eYet wear no ruffian badge\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNor lie behind the hedge\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWaiting with bombs of conspiracy\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn arm-pit secrecy;\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCarry no talisman\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFor germ or the abrupt pain\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNeeding no concrete shelter\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNor porcelain filter.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWill you wheel death anywhere\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn his invalid chair,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWith no affectionate instant\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut his attendant?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFor to be held for friend\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBy an undeveloped mind\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTo be joke for children is\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDeath's happiness:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhose anecdotes betray\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis favourite colour as blue\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eColour of distant bells\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd boys' overalls.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis tales of the bad lands\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDisturb the sewing hands;\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHard to be superior\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOn parting nausea;\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTo accept the cushions from\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWomen against martyrdom,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eYet applauding the circuits\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOf racing cyclists.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNever to make signs\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFear neither maelstrom nor zones\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSalute with soldiers' wives\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen the flag waves;\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRemembering there is\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNo recognised gift for this;\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNo income, no bounty,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNo promised country.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut to see brave sent home\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHermetically sealed with shame\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd cold's victorious wrestle\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWith molten metal.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA neutralising peace\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd an average disgrace\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAre honour to discover\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFor later other.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSeptember 1929\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e7\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSir, no man's enemy, forgiving all\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut will his negative inversion, be prodigal:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSend to us power and light, a sovereign touch\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCuring the intolerable neural itch,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe exhaustion of weaning, the liar's quinsy,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd the distortions of ingrown virginity.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eProhibit sharply the rehearsed response\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd gradually correct the coward's stance;\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCover in time with beams those in retreat\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat, spotted, they turn though the reverse were great;\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePublish each healer that in city lives\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOr country houses at the end of drives;\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHarrow the house of the dead; look shining at\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNew styles of architecture, a change of heart.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOctober 1929\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e8\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt was Easter as I walked in the public gardens\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHearing the frogs exhaling from the pond,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWatching traffic of magnificent cloud\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMoving without anxiety on open sky--\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSeason when lovers and writers find\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAn altering speech for altering things,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAn emphasis on new names, on the arm\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA fresh hand with fresh power.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut thinking so I came at once\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhere solitary man sat weeping on a bench,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHanging his head down, with his mouth distorted\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHelpless and ugly as an embryo chicken.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSo I remember all of those whose death\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIs necessary condition of the season's setting forth,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWho sorry in this time look only back\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTo Christmas intimacy, a winter dialogue\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFading in silence, leaving them in tears.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd recent particulars come to mind:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe death by cancer of a once hated master,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA friend's analysis of his own failure,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eListened to at intervals throughout the winter\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAt different hours and in different rooms.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut always with success of others for comparison,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe happiness, for instance, of my friend Kurt Groote,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAbsence of fear in Gerhart Meyer\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFrom the sea, the truly strong man.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA 'bus ran home then, on the public ground\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLay fallen bicycles like huddled corpses:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNo chattering valves of laughter emphasised\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNor the swept gown ends of a gesture stirred\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe sessile hush; until a sudden shower\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFell willing into grass and closed the day,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMaking choice seem a necessary error.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eApril 1929\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eII\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eComing out of me living is always thinking,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThinking changing and changing living,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAm feeling as it was seeing--\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn city leaning on harbour parapet\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTo watch a colony of duck below\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSit, preen, and doze on buttresses\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOr upright paddle on flickering stream,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCasually fishing at a passing straw.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThose find sun's luxury enough,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShadow know not of homesick foreigner\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNor restlessness of intercepted growth.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAll this time was anxiety at night,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShooting and barricade in street.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWalking home late I listened to a friend\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTalking excitedly of final war\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOf proletariat against police--\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat one shot girl of nineteen through the knees,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThey threw that one down concrete stair--\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTill I was angry, said I was pleased.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTime passes in Hessen, in Gutensberg,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWith hill-top and evening holds me up,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTiny observer of enormous world.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSmoke rises from factory in field,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMemory of fire: On all sides heard\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eVanishing music of isolated larks:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFrom village square voices in hymn,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMen's voices, an old use.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd I above standing, saying in thinking:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Is first baby, warm in mother,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBefore born and is still mother,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTime passes and now is other,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIs knowledge in him now of other,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCries in cold air, himself no friend.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn grown man also, may see in face\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn his day-thinking and in his night-thinking\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIs wareness and is fear of other,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAlone in flesh, himself no friend.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"He say 'We must forgive and forget,'\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eForgetting saying but is unforgiving\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd unforgiving is in his living;\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBody reminds in him to loving,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eReminds but takes no further part,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePerfunctorily affectionate in hired room\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut takes no part and is unloving\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut loving death. May see in dead,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn face of dead that loving wish,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs one returns from Africa to wife\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd his ancestral property in Wales.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eYet sometimes man look and say good\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAt strict beauty of locomotive,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCompleteness of gesture or unclouded eye;\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn me so absolute unity of evening\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd field and distance was in me for peace,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWas over me in feeling without forgetting\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThose ducks' indifference, that friend's hysteria,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWithout wishing and with forgiving,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTo love my life, not as other,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNot as bird's life, not as child's,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Cannot,\" I said, \"being no child now nor a bird.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMay 1929\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIII\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOrder to stewards and the study of time,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCorrect in books, was earlier than this\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut joined this by the wires I watched from train,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSlackening of wire and posts' sharp reprimand,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn month of August to a cottage coming.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBeing alone, the frightened soul\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eReturns to this life of sheep and hay\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNo longer his: he every hour\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMoves further from this and must so move,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs child is weaned from his mother and leaves home\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut taking the first steps falters, is vexed,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHappy only to find home, a place\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhere no tax is levied for being there.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSo, insecure, he loves and love\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIs insecure, gives less than he expects.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe knows not if it be seed in time to display\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLuxuriantly in a wonderful fructification\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOr whether it be but a degenerate remnant\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOf something immense in the past but now\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSurviving only as the infectiousness of disease\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOr in the malicious caricature of drunkenness;\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIts end glossed over by the careless but known long\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTo finer perception of the mad and ill.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMoving along the track which is himself,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe loves what he hopes will last, which gone,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBegins the difficult work of mourning,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd as foreign settlers to strange country come,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBy mispronunciation of native words\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd by intermarriage create a new race\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd a new language, so may the soul\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBe weaned at last to independent delight.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eStartled by the violent laugh of a jay\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI went from wood, from crunch underfoot,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAir between stems as under water;\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs I shall leave the summer, see autumn come\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFocusing stars more sharply in the sky,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSee frozen buzzard flipped down the weir\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd carried out to sea, leave autumn,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSee winter, winter for earth and us,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA forethought of death that we may find ourselves at death\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNot helplessly strange to the new conditions.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAugust 1929\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIV\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt is time for the destruction of error.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe chairs are being brought in from the garden,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe summer talk stopped on that savage coast\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBefore the storms, after the guests and birds:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn sanatoriums they laugh less and less,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLess certain of cure; and the loud madman\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSinks now into a more terrible calm.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe falling leaves know it, the children,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAt play on the fuming alkali-tip\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOr by the flooded football ground, know it--\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThis is the dragon's day, the devourer's:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOrders are given to the enemy for a time\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWith underground proliferation of mould,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWith constant whisper and the casual question,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTo haunt the poisoned in his shunned house,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTo destroy the efflorescence of the flesh,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTo censor the play of the mind, to enforce\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eConformity with the orthodox bone,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWith organised fear, the articulated skeleton.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eYou whom I gladly walk with, touch,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOr wait for as one certain of good,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe know it, we know that love\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNeeds more than the admiring excitement of union,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMore than the abrupt self-confident farewell,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe heel on the finishing blade of grass,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe self-confidence of the falling root,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNeeds death, death of the grain, our death.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDeath of the old gang; would leave them\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn sullen valley where is made no friend,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe old gang to be forgotten in the spring,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe hard bitch and the riding-master,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eStiff underground; deep in clear lake\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe lolling bridegroom, beautiful, there.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOctober 1929\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e9\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSince you are going to begin to-day\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLet us consider what it is you do.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eYou are the one whose part it is to lean,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFor whom it is not good to be alone.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLaugh warmly turning shyly in the hall\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOr climb with bare knees the volcanic hill,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAcquire that flick of wrist and after strain\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRelax in your darling's arms like a stone\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRemembering everything you can confess,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMaking the most of firelight, of hours of fuss;\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut joy is mine not yours--to have come so far,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhose cleverest invention was lately fur;\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLizards my best once who took years to breed,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCould not control the temperature of blood.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTo reach that shape for your face to assume,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePleasure to many and despair to some,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI shifted ranges, lived epochs handicapped\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBy climate, wars, or what the young men kept,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eModified theories on the types of dross,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAltered desire and history of dress.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eYou in the town now call the exile fool\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat writes home once a year as last leaves fall,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThink--Romans had a language in their day\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd ordered roads with it, but it had to die:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eYour culture can but leave--forgot as sure\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs place-name origins in favourite shire--\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJottings for stories, some often-mentioned Jack,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd references in letters to a private joke,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEquipment rusting in unweeded lanes,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eVirtues still advertised on local lines;\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd your conviction shall help none to fly,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCause rather a perversion on next floor.Expanded Edition","brand":"Vintage","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46303254839525,"sku":"NP9780307278081","price":18.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780307278081.jpg?v=1767736321","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/selected-poems-of-w-h-auden-isbn-9780307278081","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}