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Deftly, admiral, cast your fly

Into the slow deep hover,

Till the wise old trout mistake and die;

Salt are the deeps that cover

The glittering fleets you led,

White is your head.

Read on, ambassador, engrossed

In your favourite Stendhal;

The Outer Provinces are lost,

Unshaven horsemen swill

The great wines of the Chateaux

Where you danced long ago.

Do not turn, do not lift your eyes

Toward the still pair standing

On the bridge between your properties,

Indifferent to your minding:

In its glory, in its power,

This is their hour.

Nothing your strength, your skill, could do

Can alter their embrace

Or dispersuade the Furies who

At the appointed place

With claw and dreadful brow

Wait for them now.

WH Auden 1948

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Last modified: September 26, 2006