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.