Which cannot see its likeness in their sorrow
That brought them desperate to the brink
of valleys;
Dreaming of evening walks through learned
cities
They reined their violent horses on the
mountains,
Those fields like ships to castaways on
islands,
Visions of green to them who craved for
water.
They built by rivers and at night the water
Running past windows comforted their sorrow;
Each in his little bed conceived of islands
Where every day was dancing in the valleys
And all the green trees blossomed on the
mountains
Where love was innocent, being far from
cities.
But dawn came back and they were still in
cities;
No marvellous creature rose up from the
water;
There was still gold and silver in the
mountains
But hunger was a more immediate sorrow,
Although to moping villagers in valleys
Some waving pilgrims were describing islands
...
"The gods," they promised, "visit us from
islands,
Are stalking, head-up, lovely, through
our cities;
Now is the time to leave your wretched
valleys
And sail with them across the lime-green
water,
Sitting at their white sides, forget your
sorrow,
The shadow cast across your lives by mountains."
So many, doubtful, perished in the mountains,
Climbing up crags to get a view of islands,
So many, fearful, took with them their
sorrow
Which stayed them when they reached unhappy
cities,
So many, careless, dived and drowned in
water,
So many, wretched, would not leave their
valleys.
It is our sorrow. Shall it melt? Ah, water
Would gush, flush, green these mountains
and these valleys,
And we rebuild our cities, not dream of
islands.
--W. H. Auden
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