eighty four

The More Loving One

Looking up at the stars, I know quite well

That, for all they care, I can go to hell,

But on earth, indifference is the least

We have to dread--from man or beast.

How should we like it? Were the stars to burn

With a passion for us, we could not return?

If equal affection cannot be,

Let the more loving one be me.

Admirer, as I think I am,

Of stars, that I do not give a damn,

I cannot, now that I see them, say

I missed one terribly all day.

Were all the stars to disappear or die,

I should learn to look at an empty sky

And feel its total dark sublime,

Though this might take me a little time.

by W. H. Auden