The Wanderer

     Doom is dark and deeper than any sea-dingle.
     Upon what man it fall
     In spring, day-wishing flowers appearing,
     Avalanche sliding, white snow from rock-face,
     That he should leave his house,
     No cloud-soft hand can hold him, restraint by women;
     But ever that man goes

     Through place-keepers, through forest trees,
     A stranger to strangers over undried sea,
     Houses for fishes, suffocating water,
     Or lonely on fell as chat,
     By pot-holed becks
     A bird stone-haunting, an unquiet bird.
     There head falls forward, fatigued at evening,
     And dreams of home,
     Waving from window, spread of welcome,
     Kissing of wife under single sheet;
     But waking sees
     Bird-flocks nameless to him, through doorway voices
     Of new men making another love.

     Save him from hostile capture,
     From sudden tiger's leap at corner;
     Protect his house,
     His anxious house where days are counted
     From thunderbolt protect,
     From gradual ruin spreading like a stain;
     Converting number from vague to certain,
     Bring joy, bring day of his returning,
     Lucky with day approaching, with leaning dawn.

             1930

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© Copyright W.H.Auden