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We all have these places where shy humiliations gambol on sunny afternoons.
W. H. Auden
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W. H. Auden
Age: 66 †
Born: 1907
Born: February 21
Died: 1973
Died: September 28
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Jórvík
Wystan Hugh Auden
Wystan Auden
Wystan H Auden
W. H. Wystan Hugh Auden
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More quotes by W. H. Auden
In a world of prayer, we are all equal in the sense that each of us is a unique person, with a unique perspective on the world, a member of a class of one.
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Recipe for the upbringing of a poet: 'As much neurosis as the child can bear.
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Men will pay large sums to whores for telling them they are not bores.
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In the deserts of the heart Let the healing fountain start.
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Aphorisms are essentially an aristocratic genre of writing. The aphorist does not argue or explain, he asserts and implicit in his assertion is a conviction that he is wiser and more intelligent than his readers.
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An unmanly sort of man whose love life seems to have been largely confined to crying in laps and playing mouse.
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For time is inches And the heart's changes, Where ghost has haunted Lost and wanted.
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In times of joy, all of us wished we possessed a tail we could wag.
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Poetry makes nothing happen.
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Love each other or perish.
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The commonest ivory tower is that of the average man, the state of passivity towards experience.
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The parlour cars and Pullmans are packed also with scented assassins, salad-eaters who murder on milk.
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All sins tend to be addictive, and the terminal point of addiction is damnation.
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Human language is mythological and metaphorical by nature.
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We were put on this earth to make things.
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We who must die demand a miracle. How could the Eternal do a temporal act, The Infinite become a finite fact? Nothing can save us that is possible: We who must die demand a miracle.
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The way to read a fairy tale is to throw yourself in.
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Far from his illness The wolves ran on through the evergreen forests, The peasant river was untempted by the fashionable quays By mourning tongues The death of the poet was kept from his poems.
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He was my North, my South, my East and West, My working week and my Sunday rest, My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.
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There's always another story. There's more than meets the eye.
W. H. Auden
