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One rational voice is dumb: over a grave The household of Impulse mourns one dearly loved. Sad is Eros, builder of cities, And weeping anarchic Aphrodite.
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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Wystan Hugh Auden
Wystan Auden
Wystan H Auden
W. H. Wystan Hugh Auden
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More quotes by W. H. Auden
To discover how to be human now is the reason we follow this star.
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To make one, there must be two.
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Like love we don't know where or why Like love we cant compel or fly Like Love we often weep Like Love we seldom keep
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The words of a dead man are modified in the guts of the living.
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Of course, Behaviourism 'works'. So does torture. Give me a no-nonsense, down-to-earth behaviourist, a few drugs, and simple electrical appliances, and in six months I will have him reciting the Athanasian Creed in public.
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Ideally, government is the means by which all the individual wills are assured complete freedom of moral choice and at the same time prevented from ever clashing.
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A poor American feels guilty at being poor, but less guilty than an American rentier who has inherited wealth but is doing nothingto increase it what can the latter do but take to drink and psychoanalysis?
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All the rest is silence On the other side of the wall, And the silence ripeness, And the ripeness all.
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We are all here on earth to help others what on earth the others are here for I don't know.
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Few can remember clearly when innocence came to a sudden end, the moment at which we ask for the first time: Am I loved?
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What answer to the meaning of existence should one require beyond the right to exercise one's gifts?
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Goodness is easier to recognize than to define.
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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.
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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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All I have is a voice to undo the folded lie, the romantic lie in the brain of the sensual man-in-the-street and the lie of Authority whose buildings grope the sky: There is no such thing as the State and no one exists alone Hunger allows no choice to the citizen or the police We must love one another or die.
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We must love one another or die
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Words are for those with promises to keep.
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The poet who writes free verse is like Robinson Crusoe on his desert island: he must do all his cooking, laundry and darning for himself. In a few exceptional cases, this manly independence produces something original and impressive, but more often the result is squalor - dirty sheets on the unmade bed and empty bottles on the unswept floor.
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It's usually the stupid people that develop long illnesses. You need more than indolence and selfishness, you need endurance to make a good patient.
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A poet is a professional maker of verbal objects.
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