Their Lonely Betters

by WH Auden

As I listened from a beach-chair in the shade

To all the noises that my garden made,

It seemed to me only proper that words

Should be withheld from vegetables and birds.

A robin with no Christian name ran through

The Robin-Anthem which was all it knew,

And rustling flowers for dome third party waited

To say which pairs, if any, should get mated.

Not one of them was capable of lying,

There was not one which knew that it was dying

Or could have with a rhythm or a rhyme

Assumed responsibility for time.

Let them leave language to their lonely betters

Who count for days and long for certain letters;

We, too, make noises when we laugh or weep;

Words are for those with promises to keep.

Published by Robin

I'm a retired journalist who still has stories to tell. This seems to be a good place to tell them.

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