"Musee des Beaux Artes"
W.
H. Auden
About suffering they were never
wrong,
The Old Masters; how well, they
understood
Its human position; how it takes
place
While someone else is eating or
opening a window or just walking dully along;
How, when the aged are reverently,
passionately waiting
For the miraculous birth, there
always must be
Children who did not specifically
want it to happen, skating
On a pond at the edge of the wood:
They never forgot
That even the dreadful martyrdom
must run its course
Anyhow in a corner, some untidy
spot
Where the dogs go on with their
doggy life and the torturer’s horse
Scratches its innocent behind on a
tree.
In
Breughel’s Icarus, for instance: how everything turns away
Quite leisurely from the disaster;
the ploughman may
Have heard the splash, the forsaken
cry,
But for him it was not an important
failure; the sun shone
As it had to on the white legs
disappearing into the green
Water; and the expensive delicate
ship that must have seen
Something amazing, a boy falling
out of the sky,
Had
somewhere to get to and sailed calmly on.
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