by W. H. Auden

    She looked over his shoulder

    For vines and olive trees，

    Marble well-governed cities

    And ships upon untamed seas，

    But there on the shining metal

    His hands had put instead

    An artificial wilderness¹

    And a sky like lead.

    A plain without a feature， bare and brown，

    No blade of grass， no sign of neighborhood，

    Nothing to eat and nowhere to sit down，

    Yet， congregated² on its blankness， stood

    An unintelligible³ multitude，

    A million eyes， a million boots in line，

    Without expression， waiting for a sign.

    Out of the air a voice without a face

    Proved by statistics that some cause was just

    In tones as dry and level as the place：

    No one was cheered and nothing was discussed；

    Column by column in a cloud of dust

    They marched away enduring a belief

    Whose logic⁴ brought them， somewhere else， to grief.

    She looked over his shoulder

    For ritual pieties⁵，

    White flower-garlanded heifers，

    Libation and sacrifice，

    But there on the shining metal

    Where the altar should have been，

    She saw by his flickering⁶ forge-light

    Quite another scene.

    Barbed wire enclosed an arbitrary spot

    Where bored officials lounged （one cracked a joke）

    And sentries⁷ sweated for the day was hot：

    A crowd of ordinary decent folk

    Watched from without and neither moved nor spoke⁸

    As three pale figures were led forth⁹ and bound

    To three posts driven upright in the ground.

    The mass and majesty¹⁰ of this world， all

    That carries weight and always weighs the same

    Lay in the hands of others； they were small

    And could not hope for help and no help came：

    What their foes¹¹ like to do was done， their shame

    Was all the worst could wish； they lost their pride

    And died as men before their bodies died.

    She looked over his shoulder

    For athletes at their games，

    Men and women in a dance

    Moving their sweet limbs

    Quick， quick， to music，

    But there on the shining shield

    His hands had set no dancing-floor

    But a weed-choked field.

    A ragged¹² urchin¹³， aimless and alone，

    Loitered about that vacancy¹⁴； a bird

    Flew up to safety from his well-aimed stone：

    That girls are raped¹⁵， that two boys knife a third，

    Were axioms to him， who'd never heard

    Of any world where promises were kept，

    Or one could weep because another wept.

    The thin-lipped armorer，

    Hephaestos， hobbled away，

    Thetis of the shining breasts

    Cried out in dismay

    At what the god had wrought¹⁶

    To please her son， the strong

    Iron-hearted man-slaying Achilles

    Who would not live long.

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