from “The Secret is Out”
For the clean voice suddenly singing, high up in the convent wall,
The scent of the elder bushes, the sporting prints in the hall,
The croquet matches in summer, the handshake, the cough, the kiss,
There is always a wicked secret, a private reason for this.
W. H. Auden
Entry Filed under: Auden, W. H. • Poetry
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