New Poetry - Modernist Magazines Project
New Poetry - Modernist Magazines Project
New Poetry - Modernist Magazines Project
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12<br />
THE DREAM<br />
Dear, though the night is gone,<br />
The dream still haunts to-day,<br />
That brought us to a room,<br />
Cavernous, lofty as<br />
A railway terminus ;<br />
And crowded in that gloom<br />
Were beds, and we in one<br />
In a far corner lay.<br />
Our whisper woke no clocks,<br />
We kissed, and I was glad<br />
At everything you did,<br />
Indifferent to those<br />
Who sat with hostile eyes<br />
In pairs on every bed,<br />
Arms round each other's necks,<br />
Inert and vaguely sad.<br />
0 but what worm of guilt<br />
Or what malignant doubt<br />
Am I the victim of ?<br />
That you then, unabashed,<br />
Did what I never wished,<br />
Confessed another love,<br />
And I, submissive, felt<br />
Unwanted and went out.<br />
FOXTROT FROM A PLAY<br />
Man. The soldier loves his rifle<br />
The scholar loves his books<br />
The farmer loves his horses<br />
The film star loves her looks<br />
There's love the whole world over<br />
Wherever you may be<br />
Some lose their rest for gay Mae West<br />
But you're my cup of tea<br />
w. H. AUDEN
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