Now in a brown study

At the water-logged quarry,

I think how everyman

Shall strain and be undone,

Sit, querulous and sallow

Under the abject willow


A blackbird’s sudden scurry

Lets broken treetwigs fall

To shake the torpid pool;

And, breaking from the copse,

I climb the hill, my corpse

Already wept, and pass

Alive into the house.


W.H. Auden