W H Auden: Все стихи поэта

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O Where Are You Going?

"O where are you going?" said reader to rider,

"That valley is fatal where furnaces burn,

Yonder's the midden whose odours will madden,

That gap is the grave where the tall return."

"O do you imagine," said fearer to farer,

"That dusk will delay on your path to the pass,

Your diligent looking discover the lacking,

Your footsteps feel from granite to grass?"

W H Auden

O Tell Me The Truth About Love

Some say love's a little boy,

And some say it's a bird,

Some say it makes the world go around,

Some say that's absurd,

And when I asked the man next-door,

Who looked as if he knew,

His wife got very cross indeed,

And said it wouldn't do.

W H Auden

Are You There?

Each lover has some theory of his own

About the difference between the ache

Of being with his love, and being alone:

Why what, when dreaming, is dear flesh and bone

That really stirs the senses, when awake,

Appears a simulacrum of his own.

Narcissus disbelieves in the unknown;

He cannot join his image in the lake

W H Auden

For What As Easy

For what as easy

For what thought small,

For what is well

Because between,

To you simply

From me I mean.

Who goes with who

The bedclothes say,

W H Auden

In Memory Of WB Yeats

He disappeared in the dead of winter:

The brooks were frozen, the airports almost deserted,

And snow disfigured the public statues;

The mercury sank in the mouth of the dying day.

What instruments we have agree

The day of his death was a dark cold day.

Far from his illness

The wolves ran on through the evergreen forests,

W H Auden

Another Time

For us like any other fugitive,

Like the numberless flowers that cannot number

And all the beasts that need not remember,

It is today in which we live.

So many try to say Not Now,

So many have forgotten how

To say I Am, and would be

Lost, if they could, in history.

W H Auden

In Praise Of Limestone

If it form the one landscape that we, the inconstant ones,

Are consistently homesick for, this is chiefly

Because it dissolves in water. Mark these rounded slopes

With their surface fragrance of thyme and, beneath,

A secret system of caves and conduits; hear the springs

That spurt out everywhere with a chuckle,

Each filling a private pool for its fish and carving

Its own little ravine whose cliffs entertain

W H Auden

I Have No Gun,But I Can Spit

Some thirty inches from my nose

The frontier of my Person goes,

And all the untilled air between

Is private pagus or demesne.

Stranger, unless with bedroom eyes

I beckon you to fraternize,

Beware of rudely crossing it:

I have no gun, but I can spit.

W H Auden

This Lunar Beauty

This lunar beauty

Has no history

Is complete and early,

If beauty later

Bear any feature

It had a lover

And is another.

This like a dream

W H Auden

Lady Weeping at the Crossroads

Lady, weeping at the crossroads,

Would you meet your love

In the twilight with his greyhounds,

And the hawk on his glove?

Bribe the birds then on the branches,

Bribe them to be dumb,

Stare the hot sun out of heaven

That the night may come.

W H Auden

Lullaby

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,

W H Auden

O What Is That Sound

O what is that sound which so thrills the ear

Down in the valley drumming, drumming?

Only the scarlet soldiers, dear,

The soldiers coming.

O what is that light I see flashing so clear

Over the distance brightly, brightly?

Only the sun on their weapons, dear,

As they step lightly.

W H Auden