See Scandal praying with her sharp knees up,

And Virtue stood at Weeping Cross,

And Courage to his leaking ship appointed,

Slim Truth dismissed without a character,

And gaga Falsehood highly recommended,

The green thumb to the ledger knuckled down.

 

Greed showing shamelessly her naked money,

And all Love’s wondering eloquence debased

To a collector’s slang, Smartness in furs,

And Beauty scratching miserably for food,

Honour self-sacrificed for Calculation,

And Reason stoned by Mediocrity,

Freedom by Power shamefully maltreated,

And Justice exiled till Saint Geoffrey’s Day.

 

So in this hour of crisis and dismay,

What better than your strict and adult pen

Can warn us from the colours and the consolations,

The showy arid works, reveal

The squalid shadow of academy and garden,

Make action urgent and its nature clear?

Who gives us nearer insight to resist

The expanding fear, the savaging disaster?

 

This then my birthday wish for you, as now

From the narrow window of my fourth-floor room

I smoke into the night, and watch reflections

Stretch in the harbour. In the houses

The little pianos are closed, and a clock strikes,

And all sway forward on the dangerous flood

Of history, that never sleeps or dies,

And, held one moment, burns the hand.

 

W.H. Auden (1907-1973), To a writer on his Birthday.