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Clear, unscaleable ahead, Rise the mountains of instead From whose cold, cascading streams None may drink except in dreams
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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University Teacher
Writer
Jórvík
Wystan Hugh Auden
Wystan Auden
Wystan H Auden
W. H. Wystan Hugh Auden
Clear
None
Dream
Mountain
May
Except
Whose
Cascading
Dreams
Mountains
Drink
Streams
Cold
Ahead
Instead
Rise
More quotes by W. H. Auden
You owe it to all of us all get on with what you're good at.
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a culture is no better than its woods
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Drama is based on the Mistake.
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A verbal art like poetry is reflective it stops to think. Music is immediate, it goes on to become.
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God is Love, we are taught as children to believe. But when we first begin to get some inkling of how He loves us, we are repelled it seems so cold, indeed, not love at all as we understand the word.
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The friends who met here and embraced are gone, Each to his own mistake.
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Drama began as the act of a whole community. Ideally, there would be no speculators. In practice, every member of the audience should feel like an understudy.
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In times of joy, all of us wished we possessed a tail we could wag.
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Earth, receive an honored guest William Yeats is laid to rest. Let the Irish vessel lie Emptied of its poetry.
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The relation of faith between subject and object is unique in every case. Hundreds may believe, but each has to believe by himself.
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A poet's hope: to be, like some valley cheese, local, but prized elsewhere.
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Fame often makes a writer vain, but seldom makes him proud.
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You need not see what someone is doing to know if it is his vocation, you have only to watch his eyes: a cook mixing a sauce, a surgeon making a primary incision, a clerk completing a bill of lading wear the same rapt expression, forgetting themselves in a function. How beautiful it is, that eye-on-the-obje ct look.
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Let me see what I wrote so I know what I think
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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.
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Among those whom I like or admire, I can find no common denominator, but among those whom I love, I can: all of them make me laugh.
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No poet or novelist wishes he were the only one who ever lived, but most of them wish they were the only one alive, and quite a number fondly believe their wish has been granted.
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Oh, how I wish that Orwell were still alive, so that I could read his comments on contemporary events!
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Every high C accurately struck demolishes the theory that we are the irresponsible puppets of fate or chance.
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Swans in the winter air A white perfection have
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