Dear, though the night is gone,
Its dream still haunts today,
That brought us to a room
Cavernous, lofty as
A railway terminus,
And crowded in that gloom
Were beds, and we in one
In a far corner lay:

Our whisper woke no clocks,
We kissed and I was glad
At everything you did,
Indifferent to those
Who sat with hostile eyes
In pairs on every bed,
Arms round each other’s necks
Inert and vaguely sad.

What hidden worm of guilt
Or what malignant doubt
Am I the victim of,
That you then, unabashed,
Did what I never wished,
Confessed another love;
And I, submissive, felt
Unwanted and went out.

one of my favourite ...

Auden, Auden, Auden... I am reading sites for fishermen - Auden, I open the fridge - Auden, I go to the lesbians' party - Auden.
What the fuck is wrong with me?

If homosexualism is a dolling up in front of the mirror, infinite pretending ... Wystan Auden became a postmodernist in this way. Unlucky parody of T.S. Eliot /in this poem/. Auden never had his own style.