W.H. Auden - In Praise Of Limestone

If it form the one landscape that we, the inconstant ones, 
Are consistently homesick for, this is chiefly 
Because it dissolves in water. Mark these rounded slopes 
With their surface fragrance of thyme and, beneath, 
A secret system of caves and conduits; hear the springs 
That spurt out everywhere with a chuckle, 
Each filling a private pool for its fish and carving 
Its own little ravine whose cliffs entertain 
The butterfly and the lizard; examine this region 
Of short distances and definite places: 
What could be more like Mother or a fitter background 
For her son, the flirtatious male who lounges 
Against a rock in the sunlight, never doubting 
That for all his faults he is loved; whose works are but 
Extensions of his power to charm? From weathered outcrop 
To hill-top temple, from appearing waters to 
Conspicuous fountains, from a wild to a formal vineyard, 
Are ingenious but short steps that a child's wish 
To receive more attention than his brothers, whether 
By pleasing or teasing, can easily take.

Watch, then, the band of rivals as they climb up and down 
Their steep stone gennels in twos and threes, at times 
Arm in arm, but never, thank God, in step; or engaged 
On the shady side of a square at midday in 
Voluble discourse, knowing each other too well to think 
There are any important secrets, unable 
To conceive a god whose temper-tantrums are moral 
And not to be pacified by a clever line 
Or a good lay: for accustomed to a stone that responds, 
They have never had to veil their faces in awe 
Of a crater whose blazing fury could not be fixed; 
Adjusted to the local needs of valleys 
Where everything can be touched or reached by walking, 
Their eyes have never looked into infinite space 
Through the lattice-work of a nomad's comb; born lucky, 
Their legs have never encountered the fungi 
And insects of the jungle, the monstrous forms and lives 
With which we have nothing, we like to hope, in common. 
So, when one of them goes to the bad, the way his mind works 
Remains incomprehensible: to become a pimp 
Or deal in fake jewellery or ruin a fine tenor voice 
For effects that bring down the house, could happen to all 
But the best and the worst of us... 
That is why, I suppose, 
The best and worst never stayed here long but sought 
Immoderate soils where the beauty was not so external, 
The light less public and the meaning of life 
Something more than a mad camp. `Come!' cried the granite wastes, 
`How evasive is your humour, how accidental 
Your kindest kiss, how permanent is death.' (Saints-to-be 
Slipped away sighing.) `Come!' purred the clays and gravels, 
`On our plains there is room for armies to drill; rivers 
Wait to be tamed and slaves to construct you a tomb 
In the grand manner: soft as the earth is mankind and both 
Need to be altered.' (Intendant Caesars rose and 
Left, slamming the door.) But the really reckless were fetched 
By an older colder voice, the oceanic whisper: 
`I am the solitude that asks and promises nothing; 
That is how I shall set you free. There is no love; 
There are only the various envies, all of them sad.' 

They were right, my dear, all those voices were right 
And still are; this land is not the sweet home that it looks, 
Nor its peace the historical calm of a site 
Where something was settled once and for all: A back ward 
And dilapidated province, connected 
To the big busy world by a tunnel, with a certain 
Seedy appeal, is that all it is now? Not quite: 
It has a worldy duty which in spite of itself 
It does not neglect, but calls into question 
All the Great Powers assume; it disturbs our rights. The poet, 
Admired for his earnest habit of calling 
The sun the sun, his mind Puzzle, is made uneasy 
By these marble statues which so obviously doubt 
His antimythological myth; and these gamins, 
Pursuing the scientist down the tiled colonnade 
With such lively offers, rebuke his concern for Nature's 
Remotest aspects: I, too, am reproached, for what 
And how much you know. Not to lose time, not to get caught, 
Not to be left behind, not, please! to resemble 
The beasts who repeat themselves, or a thing like water 
Or stone whose conduct can be predicted, these 
Are our common prayer, whose greatest comfort is music 
Which can be made anywhere, is invisible, 
And does not smell. In so far as we have to look forward 
To death as a fact, no doubt we are right: But if 
Sins can be forgiven, if bodies rise from the dead, 
These modifications of matter into 
Innocent athletes and gesticulating fountains, 
Made solely for pleasure, make a further point: 
The blessed will not care what angle they are regarded from, 
Having nothing to hide. Dear, I know nothing of 
Either, but when I try to imagine a faultless love 
Or the life to come, what I hear is the murmur 
Of underground streams, what I see is a limestone landscape.