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God may reduce you on Judgment Day to tears of shame, reciting by heart the poems you would have written, had your life been good.

W. H. Auden

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W. H. Auden
Age: 66 †
Born: 1907
Born: February 21
Died: 1973
Died: September 28
Author
Composer
Essayist
Librettist
Literary Critic
Literary Historian
Playwright
Poet
Screenwriter
University Teacher
Writer
Jórvík
Wystan Hugh Auden
Wystan Auden
Wystan H Auden
W. H. Wystan Hugh Auden
Good
Reduce
Would
Poems
Life
Shame
Judgment
Tears
Written
May
Heart
Reciting

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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 autobiography is concerned with two characters, a Don Quixote, the Ego, and a Sancho Panza, the Self.
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Poetry might be defined as the clear expression of mixed feelings.
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A man is a form of life that dreams in order to act and acts in order to dream.
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All sins tend to be addictive, and the terminal point of addiction is damnation.
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Water is the soul of the Earth.
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In a game, just losing is almost as satisfying as just winning... In life the loser's score is always zero.
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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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What the poet says has never been said before, but, once he has said it, his readers recognize its validity for themselves.
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We are not commanded (or forbidden) to love our mates, our children, our friends, our country because such affections come naturally to us and are good in themselves, although we may corrupt them. We are commanded to love our neighbor because our natural attitude toward the other is one of either indifference or hostility.
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We must love one another or die
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I smell blood and an era of prominent madmen.
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No hero is mortal till he dies.
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Composing mortals with immortal fire.
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Beauty, midnight, vision dies: Let the winds of dawn that blow Softly round your dreaming head Such a day of welcome show Eye and knocking heart may bless, Find our mortal world enough Noons of dryness find you fed By the involuntary powers, Nights of insult let you pass Watched by every human love.
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Harrow the house of the dead look shining at New styles of architecture, a change of heart.
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In the deserts of the heart Let the healing fountain start.
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You owe it to all of us all get on with what you're good at.
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Does God judge us by appearances? I Suspect that He does.
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Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone, Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone. Silence the pianos and with muffled drum Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
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