W.H. Auden was an Anglo-American poet often regarded by critics as one of the great writers of the 21st century. Below are ten of my favorites lines from his poetry. What is your favorite?
“He was my
North, my South, my East and West,
My working
week and Sunday rest,
My noon, my
midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought
that love would last forever:
I was
wrong.”
“All the
clocks in the city
Began to
whir and chime:
'O let
not Time deceive you,
You cannot
conquer Time.'"
“These are
enough
Leftovers to
do, warmed-up, for the rest of the week--
Not that we
have much appetite, having drunk such a lot,
Stayed up so
late, attempted--quite unsuccessfully--
To love all
our relatives, and in general
Grossly
overestimated our powers.”
"How should
we like it were stars to burn
With a
passion for us we could not return?
If equal
affection cannot be,
Let the more
loving one be me."
“The stars
are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the
moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away
the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing
now can ever come to any good.”
“Beloved, we
are always in the wrong,
Handling so
clumsily our stupid lives,
Suffering
too little or too long,
Too careful
even in our selfish loves:
The
decorative manias we obey
Die in
grimaces round us every day,
Yet through
their tohu-bohu comes a voice
Which utters
an absurd command - Rejoice. ”
“For the
error bred in the bone
Of each
woman and each man
Craves what
it cannot have,
Not
universal love
But to be
loved alone”
“Behind the
corpse in the reservoir, behind the ghost on the links,
Behind the
lady who dances and the man who madly drinks,
Under the
look of fatigue, the attack of migraine and the sigh
There is
always another story, there is more than meets the eye.”
“The
nightingales are sobbing in
The orchards
of our mothers,
And hearts
that we broke long ago
Have long
been breaking others.”
"Admirer as I
think I am
Of stars
that do not give a damn,
I cannot,
now I see them, say
I missed one
terribly all day."
I most love W. H. Auden's Bucholics...
ReplyDeleteMountains-
To be sitting in privacy,like a cat
On the warm roof of a loft,
Where the high-spirited son of some gloomy tarn
Comes sprinting down through a green croft,
Bright with flowers laid out in exquisite splodges...
For an uncatlike
Creature who has gone wrong,
Five minutes on even the nicest mountain
Is awfully long.
I sometimes deeply appreciate modern English poetry. Your post about Auden is interesting and appropriate. Auden' lines quoted are pleasantly traditional Thank you.
ReplyDeleteSilvio Pilone (Google circle "Friendly Simpatia"). (2013).