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The nightingales are sobbing in The orchards of our mothers, And hearts that we broke long ago Have long been breaking others Tears are round, the sea is deep: Roll them overboard and sleep.
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
Long
Hearts
Overboard
Sea
Orchard
Tears
Mothers
Deep
Breaking
Sleep
Roll
Mother
Round
Orchards
Others
Rounds
Sobbing
Heart
Broke
Nightingales
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Health is the state about which medicine has nothing to say.
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It's a pity I am so impatient and careless, as any ordinary person could learn all the techniques of photography in a week. It is the democratic art, i.e. technical skill is practically eliminated - the more foolproof cameras become with focusing and exposure gadgets the better - and artistic quality depends only on choice of subject.
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Without Art, we should have no notion of the sacred without Science, we should always worship false gods.
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I smell blood and an era of prominent madmen.
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Shall memory restore The steps and the shore, The face and the meeting place.
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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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In addition to English, at least one ancient language, probably Greek or Hebrew, and two modern languages would be required.
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It is already possible to imagine a society in which the majority of the population, that is to say, its laborers, will have almost as much leisure as in earlier times was enjoyed by the aristocracy. When one recalls how aristocracies in the past actually behaved, the prospect is not cheerful.
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the child unlucky in his little State, Some hearth where freedom is excluded, A hive whose honey is fear and worry, Feels calmer now and somehow assured of escape
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Love each other or perish.
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The stars are not wanted now, put out every one Pack up the moon & dismantle the sun.
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Time will say nothing but I told you so.
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Before people complain of the obscurity of modern poetry, they should first examine their consciences and ask themselves with how many people and on how many occasions they have genuinely and profoundly shared some experience with another...
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We were put on this Earth to help others. Why others were put here is beyond me.
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We are lived by powers we pretend to understand.
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The windiest militant trash Important Persons shout Is not so crude as our wish: What mad Nijinsky wrote About Diaghilev Is true of the normal heart 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.
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To my generation no other English poet seemed so perfectly to express the sensibility of a male adolescent. If I do not now turn to him very often, I am eternally grateful to him for the joy he gave me in my youth.
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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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What living occasion can, Be just to the absent?
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Look if you like, but you will have to leap.
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