O who can ever gaze his fill, Farmer and fisherman say, On native shore and local hill, Grudge aching limb or callus on the hand? Father, grandfather stood upon this land, And here the pilgrims from our loins will stand. So farmer and fisherman say in their fortunate hey-day: But Deaths low answer drifts across Empty catch or harvest loss Or an unlucky May. The earth is an oyster with nothing inside it, Not to be born is the best for man; The end of toil is a bailiffs order, Throw down the mattock and dance while you can. O lifes too short for friends who share, travellers think in their hearts, The citys common bed, the air The mountain bivouac and the bathing beach, Where incidents draw every day from each Memorable gesture and witty speech. So travellers think in their hearts, Till malice or circumstance parts them from their constant humour: And slyly Deaths coercive rumour In that moment starts. A friend is the old tale of Narcissus, Not to be born is the best for man; An active partner in something disgraceful, Change your partner, dance while you can. O stretch your hands across the sea. The impassioned lover cries, Stretch them towards your harm and me. Our grass is green, and sensual our brief bed, The stream sings at its foot, and at its head The mild and vegetarian beasts are fed. So the impassioned lover cries Till the storm of pleasure dies: From the bedposts and the rocks Deaths enticing echo mocks, And his voice replies. The greater the love, the more false to its object, Not to be born is the best for man; After the kiss comes the impulse to throttle, Break the embraces, dance while you can. I see the guilty world forgiven, Dreamer and drunkard sing, The ladders let down out of heaven, The laurel springing from the martyrs blood, The children skipping where the weeper stood, The lovers natural and beasts all good. So dreamer and drunkard sing, Till day their sobriety bring: Parrotwise with Deaths reply From whelping fear and nesting lie, Woods and their echoes ring. The desires of the heart are as crooked as corkscrews, Not to be born is the best for man; The second-best is a formal order, Dance, dance, for the figure is easy, The tune is catching and will not stop; Dance till the stars come down from the rafters; Dance, dance, dance till you drop. The Dead Echo, W.H. Auden
Posted on: Tue, 11 Mar 2014 10:49:34 +0000
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