My Muse sits forlorn She wishes she had not been born She sits in the cold No word she says is ever told.
Nobody heard him, the dead man, But still he lay moaning. I was much further out than you thought, and not waving but drowning. I was much too far out all my life, And not waving but drowning.
This Englishwoman is so refined, She has no bosom and no behind.
I may be smelly and I may be old, Rough in my pebbles, reedy in my pools, But where my fish float by I bless their swimming, And I like the people to bathe in me especially women.
I don't think Auden liked my poetry very much, he's very Anglican.
Hope and desire, All unfulfilled, Have more than rope And hangman killed.