You asked me which of Auden’s poems br were my favourite, and I sighed br for memory’s fade, then walked to the dusty shelf br where next to those volumes of Eliot br with their brown-paper covers for those br precious wartime books allowed br a ration of Canadian paper for br fighting men to read in those br few moments of leisure for the open heart and br the vision of a peacetime world, was br br ‘Collected Shorter Poems 1930-1944 W.H.Auden’ br br which fell open at page 54, br ‘In Memory of W.B.Yeats (d.January 1939) ’ br ‘Earth, receive an honoured guest…’; br those pages yellowed more than br the others around them as if br read often late at night br under what was still gaslight br with respectful but unwashed hands br after cocoa and biscuits with a scrape of butter br br and it all came back: 1953, that was the year br when there was only one poet Yeats.. br and poetry and music were the same; br I turned the pages – they fell open once again, br ‘Time will say nothing but I told you so’… br br So many poems there, unread, or unremembered, br how could it be that I abandoned Auden, br not hearing his music, while br other interests began to pull? br br Then I sat silent at the thought br that a great poet of great mind, great heart, br was writing, writing, most of my lifetime br while I was wrapt in other things; br br sat silent, honouring br what is to be honoured br as best we can; br what is to be honoured.