by W. H. Auden

    I

    He disappeared in the dead of winter：

    The brooks¹ were frozen， the airports almost deserted²，

    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 evergreen³ forests，

    The peasant river was untempted by the fashionable quays⁴；

    By mourning tongues

    The death of the poet was kept from his poems.

    But for him it was his last afternoon as himself，

    An afternoon of nurses and rumours⁵；

    The provinces of his body revolted，

    The squares of his mind were empty，

    Silence invaded the suburbs，

    The current of his feeling failed； he became his admirers.

    Now he is scattered⁶ among a hundred cities

    And wholly given over to unfamiliar⁷ affections，

    To find his happiness in another kind of wood

    And be punished under a foreign code of conscience.

    The words of a dead man

    Are modified in the guts⁸ of the living.

    But in the importance and noise of to-morrow

    When the brokers⁹ are roaring like beasts on the floor of the Bourse，

    And the poor have the sufferings to which they are fairly accustomed，

    And each in the cell of himself is almost convinced of his freedom，

    A few thousand will think of this day

    As one thinks of a day when one did something slightly unusual.

    What instruments we have agree

    The day of his death was a dark cold day.

    II

    You were silly like us； your gift survived it all：

    The parish of rich women， physical decay，

    Yourself. Mad Ireland hurt you into poetry.

    Now Ireland has her madness and her weather still，

    For poetry makes nothing happen： it survives

    In the valley of its making where executives

    Would never want to tamper¹⁰， flows on south

    From ranches¹¹ of isolation¹² and the busy griefs，

    Raw towns that we believe and die in； it survives，

    A way of happening， a mouth.

    III

    Earth， receive an honoured guest：

    William Yeats is laid to rest.

    Let the Irish vessel¹³ lie

    Emptied of its poetry.

    In the nightmare of the dark

    All the dogs of Europe bark，

    And the living nations wait，

    Each sequestered¹⁴ in its hate；

    Intellectual disgrace

    Stares from every human face，

    And the seas of pity lie

    Locked and frozen in each eye.

    Follow， poet， follow right

    To the bottom of the night，

    With your unconstraining voice

    Still persuade us to rejoice；

    With the farming of a verse

    Make a vineyard of the curse，

    Sing of human unsuccess

    In a rapture¹⁵ of distress¹⁶；

    In the deserts of the heart

    Let the healing fountain start，

    In the prison of his days

    Teach the free man how to praise.

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