Alan Jacobs referred to Their Lonely Betters the other day in his newsletter, and I have found myself reading it over and over.
I can’t put my finger on why this is the case exactly.
But it’s something about being outside more than usual, with my trees and robins and what not.
That fourth stanza especially…
Their Lonely Betters
By: W. H. 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 some 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 some days and long for certain letters;
We, too, make noises when we laugh or weep:
Words are for those with promises to keep.