Poem by Wystan Hugh Auden

Gare du Midi

A nondescript express in from the South,
Crowds round the ticket barrier, a face
To welcome which the mayor has not contrived
Bugles or braid: something about the mouth
Distracts the stray look with alarm and pity.
Snow is falling, Clutching a little case,
He walks out briskly to infect a city
Whose terrible future may have just arrived.

1. O What Is That Sound
2. Under Which Lyre
3. Atlantis
4. For What As Easy
5. The Geography of the House

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