Epitaph on a Tyrant

W. H. Auden

Perfection, of a kind, was what he was after,

And the poetry he invented was easy to understand;

He knew human folly like the back of his hand,

And was greatly interested in armies and fleets;

When he laughed, respectable senators burst with laughter,

And when he cried the little children died in the streets.

As I Walked Out One Evening by W. H. Auden
As I walked out one evening,

First Things First by W. H. Auden

Friday's Child by W. H. Auden

In Memory of Sigmund Freud by W. H. Auden
When there are so many we shall have to mourn,

In Memory of W. B. Yeats by W. H. Auden
He disappeared in the dead of winter:

Lullaby by W. H. Auden
Lay Your Sleeping head, my love,

On the Circuit by W. H. Auden
Among pelagian travelers,

September 1, 1939 by W. H. Auden
I sit in one of the dives

The Fall of Rome by W. H. Auden
The piers are pummelled by the waves;

The More Loving One by W. H. Auden
Looking up at the stars, I know quite well

The Shield of Achilles by W. H. Auden
She looked over his shoulder

The Unknown Citizen by W. H. Auden
He was found by the Bureau of Statistics to be