Author Profile

Poems by Wystan Hugh Auden

Poet, born thursday february 21, 1907 in York (United Kingdom), died saturday september 29, 1973 in Vienna (Austria)
You can find this author also in Quotes & Aphorisms.
3 of 3
Posted by: Silvana Stremiz
in Poems ()
Driver drive faster and make a good run
Down the Springfield Line under the shining sun.
Fly like an aeroplane, don't pull up short
Till you brake for Grand Central Station, New York.
For there in the middle of the waiting-hall
Should be standing the one that I love best of all.
If he's not there to meet me when I get to town
I'll stand on the side-walk with tears rolling down.
For he is the one that I love to look on,
The acme of kindness and perfection.
He presses my hand and he says he loves me,
Which I find a admirable peculiarity.
The woods are bright green on both sides of the line,
The trees have their loves though they're different from mine.
But the poor fat old banker in the sun-parlour car
Has no one to love him except his cigar.
If I were the Head of the Church or the State,
I'd powder my nose and just tell them to wait.
For love's more important and powerful than
Ever a priest or a politician.
Wystan Hugh Auden
Rate this poem: Send
    Posted by: Silvana Stremiz
    in Poems (, )
    Lay your sleeping head, my love
    Human on my faithless arm;
    Time and fevers burn away
    Individual beauty from
    Thoughtful children, and the grave
    Proves the child ephemeral;
    But in my arms till break of day
    Let the living creature lie:
    Mortal, guilty, but to me
    The entirely beautiful.
    Wystan Hugh Auden
    Rate this poem: Send
      Posted by: Silvana Stremiz
      in Poems ()
      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.

      Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
      Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
      Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
      Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

      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 for ever: I was wrong.

      The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
      Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
      Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
      For nothing now can ever come to any good.
      Wystan Hugh Auden
      Rate this poem: Send
        1 - 2 - 3
        Read something newDiscover All Topics