W. h. auden, in memory of sigmund freud

When there are so many we shall have to mourn,
When grief has been made so public, and exposed
to the critique of a whole epoch
the frailty of our conscience and anguish,

Of whom shall we speak? For every day they die
Among us, those who were doing us some good,
who knew it was never enough but
hoped to improve a little by living.

Such was this doctor: still at eighty he wished
To think of our life from whose unruliness
so many plausible young futures
with threats or flattery ask obedience,

But his wish was denied him: he closed his eyes
Upon that last picture, common to us all,
of problems like relatives gathered
puzzled and jealous about our dying.

For about him till the very end were still
Those he had studied, the fauna of the night,
and shades that still waited to enter
the bright circle of his recognition

Turned elsewhere with their disappointment as he

/> Was taken away from his life interest
to go back to the earth in London,
an important Jew who died in exile.

Only Hate was happy, hoping to augment
His practice now, and his dingy clientele
who think they can be cured by killing
and covering the garden with ashes.

They are still alive, but in a world he changed
Simply by looking back with no false regrets;
all he did was to remember
like the old and be honest like children.

He wasn’t clever at all: he merely told
The unhappy Present to recite the Past
like a poetry lesson till sooner
or later it faltered at the line where

Long ago the accusations had begun,
And suddenly knew by whom it had been judged,
how rich life had been and how silly,
and was life-forgiven and more humble,

Able to approach the Future as a friend
Without a wardrobe of excuses, without
a set mask of rectitude or an
embarrassing over-familiar gesture.

No wonder the ancient cultures of conceit
In his technique of unsettlement foresaw
the fall of princes, the collapse of
their lucrative patterns of frustration:

If he succeeded, why, the Generalised Life
Would become impossible, the monolith
of State be broken and prevented
the co-operation of avengers.

Of course they called on God, but he went his way
Down among the lost people like Dante, down
to the stinking fosse where the injured
lead the ugly life of the rejected,

And showed us what evil is, not, as we thought,
Deeds that must be punished, but our lack of faith,
our dishonest mood of denial,
the concupiscence of the oppressor.

If some traces of the autocratic pose,
The paternal strictness he distrusted, still
clung to his utterance and features,
it was a protective coloration

For one who’d lived among enemies so long:
If often he was wrong and, at times, absurd,
to us he is no more a person
now but a whole climate of opinion

Under whom we conduct our different lives:
Like weather he can only hinder or help,
the proud can still be proud but find it
a little harder, the tyrant tries to

Make do with him but doesn’t care for him much:
He quietly surrounds all our habits of growth
and extends, till the tired in even
the remotest miserable duchy

Have felt the change in their bones and are cheered
Till the child, unlucky in his little State,
some hearth where freedom is excluded,
a hive whose honey is fear and worry,

Feels calmer now and somehow assured of escape,
While, as they lie in the grass of our neglect,
so many long-forgotten objects
revealed by his undiscouraged shining