Night covers up the rigid land
And ocean’s quaking moor,
And shadows with a tolerant hand
The ugly and the poor
The wounded pride for which I weep
You cannot staunch, nor I control the moments of your sleep
Nor hear the name you cry,
Whose life is lucky in your eyes,
And precious is the bed
As to his utter fancy lies
The dark caressive head.
For each love to its aim is true,
And all kinds seek their own;
You love your life and I love you, so I must lie alone.
Oh hurry to the fated spot
Of your deliberate fall;
For now my dreams of you cannot
Refer to you at all.
-W.H. Auden, with the most heartbreaking setting by Benjamin Britten. Listen and weep.
