“In Memory of W. B. Yeats,” poem by W. H. Auden, poets.org
This poem has several “movements,” like a symphony. I marvel at its discursive tone — “You were silly like us” — until the last stanza, where it becomes highly stressed and rhymed. That transition, for me, is a punch in the gut, like the organ cutting loose in a cathedral.
(Copyright 2018 James Mansfield Nichols. All rights reserved.)
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