Poet of the day

Perhaps every day should have a poet. Anyway, today, for no reason whatsoever, it is Auden:


How should we like it were stars to burn
With a passion for us we could not return?
If equal affection cannot be,
Let the more loving one be me.


And I like him too because he said this:


In times of joy, all of us wished we possessed a tail we could wag.

With Isherwood, in 1938, on their way to China. I rather covet both their overcoats. 

Also, I think: Auden in China? I had no idea. That's another thing I shall have to look up on the Google, when I should be working.