© 2019 Good Dust

Barcarolle

W.H. Auden and Chester Kallman (from The Rake's Progress)

Gently, little boat

Across the waters float,

Their crystal waves dividing;

       The sun in the west

       Is going to rest:

                     Glide, glide, glide,

Towards the Islands of the Blest.

 

Orchards greenly grace

That undisturbed place,

The wearied soul recalling

       To slumber and dream,

       While many a stream

                            Falls, falls, falls,

Descanting on a child-like theme.

WEEKLY poem

Refugee Blues

by W.H. Auden

Say this city has ten million souls,
Some are living in mansions, some are living in holes:
Yet there's no place for us, my dear, yet there's no place for us.

Once we had a country and we thought it fair,
Look in the atlas and you'll find it there:
We cannot go there now, my dear, we cannot go there now.

In the village churchyard there grows an old yew,
Every spring it blossoms anew:
Old passports can't do that, my dear, old passports can't do that.

The consul banged the table and said,
"If you've got no passport you're officially dead":
But we are still alive, my dear, but we are still alive.