text: const wHAuden = {
    name: 'w-h-auden',
    genre: 'modernism',
    data: [
  `He disappeared in the dead of winter:
  The brooks were frozen, the airports almost deserted,
  And snow disfigured the public statues;
  The mercury sank in the mouth of the dying day.
  What instruments we have agree
  The day of his death was a dark cold day.
  
  Far from his illness
  The wolves ran on through the evergreen forests,
  The peasant river was untempted by the fashionable quays;
  By mourning tongues
  The death of the poet was kept from his poems.
  
  But for him it was his last afternoon as himself,
  An afternoon of nurses and rumours;
  The provinces of his body revolted,
  The squares of his mind were empty,
  Silence invaded the suburbs,
  The current of his feeling failed; he became his admirers.
  
  Now he is scattered among a hundred cities
  And wholly given over to unfamiliar affections,
  To find his happiness in another kind of wood
  And be punished under a foreign code of conscience.
  The words of a dead man
  Are modified in the guts of the living.
  
  But in the importance and noise of to-morrow
  When the brokers are roaring like beasts on the floor of the
       Bourse,
  And the poor have the sufferings to which they are fairly
       accustomed,
  And each in the cell of himself is almost convinced of his
       freedom,
  A few thousand will think of this day
  As one thinks of a day when one did something slightly unusual.
  
  What instruments we have agree
  The day of his death was a dark cold day.`,
  
  `You were silly like us; your gift survived it all:
  The parish of rich women, physical decay,
  Yourself. Mad Ireland hurt you into poetry.
  Now Ireland has her madness and her weather still,
  For poetry makes nothing happen: it survives
  In the valley of its making where executives
  Would never want to tamper, flows on south
  From ranches of isolation and the busy griefs,
  Raw towns that we believe and die in; it survives,
  A way of happening, a mouth.`,
  
  `Earth, receive an honoured guest:
  William Yeats is laid to rest.
  Let the Irish vessel lie
  Emptied of its poetry.
  
  In the nightmare of the dark
  All the dogs of Europe bark,
  And the living nations wait,
  Each sequestered in its hate;
  
  Intellectual disgrace
  Stares from every human face,
  And the seas of pity lie
  Locked and frozen in each eye.
  
  Follow, poet, follow right
  To the bottom of the night,
  With your unconstraining voice
  Still persuade us to rejoice;
  
  With the farming of a verse
  Make a vineyard of the curse,
  Sing of human unsuccess
  In a rapture of distress;
  
  In the deserts of the heart
  Let the healing fountain start,
  In the prison of his days
  Teach the free man how to praise.`,
  
  `Perfection, of a kind, was what he was after,
  And the poetry he invented was easy to understand;
  He knew human folly like the back of his hand,
  And was greatly interested in armies and fleets;
  When he laughed, respectable senators burst with laughter,
  And when he cried the little children died in the streets.`,
  
  `I sit in one of the dives
  On Fifty-second Street
  Uncertain and afraid
  As the clever hopes expire
  Of a low dishonest decade:
  Waves of anger and fear
  Circulate over the bright 
  And darkened lands of the earth,
  Obsessing our private lives;
  The unmentionable odour of death
  Offends the September night.
  
  Accurate scholarship can 
  Unearth the whole offence
  From Luther until now
  That has driven a culture mad,
  Find what occurred at Linz,
  What huge imago made
  A psychopathic god:
  I and the public know
  What all schoolchildren learn,
  Those to whom evil is done
  Do evil in return. 
  
  Exiled Thucydides knew
  All that a speech can say
  About Democracy,
  And what dictators do,
  The elderly rubbish they talk
  To an apathetic grave;
  Analysed all in his book,
  The enlightenment driven away,
  The habit-forming pain,
  Mismanagement and grief:
  We must suffer them all again.
  
  Into this neutral air
  Where blind skyscrapers use
  Their full height to proclaim
  The strength of Collective Man,
  Each language pours its vain
  Competitive excuse:
  But who can live for long
  In an euphoric dream;
  Out of the mirror they stare,
  Imperialism’s face
  And the international wrong.
  
  Faces along the bar
  Cling to their average day:
  The lights must never go out,
  The music must always play,
  All the conventions conspire 
  To make this fort assume
  The furniture of home;
  Lest we should see where we are,
  Lost in a haunted wood,
  Children afraid of the night
  Who have never been happy or good.
  
  The windiest militant trash
  Important Persons shout
  Is not so crude as our wish:
  What mad Nijinsky wrote
  About Diaghilev
  Is true of the normal heart;
  For the error bred in the bone
  Of each woman and each man
  Craves what it cannot have,
  Not universal love
  But to be loved alone.
  
  From the conservative dark
  Into the ethical life
  The dense commuters come,
  Repeating their morning vow;
  “I will be true to the wife,
  I’ll concentrate more on my work,"
  And helpless governors wake
  To resume their compulsory game:
  Who can release them now,
  Who can reach the deaf,
  Who can speak for the dumb?
  
  All I have is a voice
  To undo the folded lie,
  The romantic lie in the brain
  Of the sensual man-in-the-street
  And the lie of Authority
  Whose buildings grope the sky:
  There is no such thing as the State
  And no one exists alone;
  Hunger allows no choice
  To the citizen or the police;
  We must love one another or die.
  
  Defenceless under the night
  Our world in stupor lies;
  Yet, dotted everywhere,
  Ironic points of light
  Flash out wherever the Just
  Exchange their messages:
  May I, composed like them
  Of Eros and of dust,
  Beleaguered by the same
  Negation and despair,
  Show an affirming flame.`,
  
  `She looked over his shoulder
  For vines and olive trees,
  Marble well-governed cities
  And ships upon untamed seas,
  But there on the shining metal
  His hands had put instead
  An artificial wilderness
  And a sky like lead.
  
  A plain without a feature, bare and brown,
  No blade of grass, no sign of neighborhood,
  Nothing to eat and nowhere to sit down, 
  Yet, congregated on its blankness, stood
  An unintelligible multitude,
  A million eyes, a million boots in line, 
  Without expression, waiting for a sign.
  
  Out of the air a voice without a face
  Proved by statistics that some cause was just
  In tones as dry and level as the place:
  No one was cheered and nothing was discussed;
  Column by column in a cloud of dust
  They marched away enduring a belief
  Whose logic brought them, somewhere else, to grief.
  
  She looked over his shoulder
  For ritual pieties,
  White flower-garlanded heifers,
  Libation and sacrifice,
  But there on the shining metal
  Where the altar should have been,
  She saw by his flickering forge-light
  Quite another scene.
  
  Barbed wire enclosed an arbitrary spot
  Where bored officials lounged (one cracked a joke)
  And sentries sweated for the day was hot:
  A crowd of ordinary decent folk
  Watched from without and neither moved nor spoke
  As three pale figures were led forth and bound
  To three posts driven upright in the ground.
  
  The mass and majesty of this world, all
  That carries weight and always weighs the same
  Lay in the hands of others; they were small
  And could not hope for help and no help came:
  What their foes like to do was done, their shame
  Was all the worst could wish; they lost their pride
  And died as men before their bodies died.
  
  She looked over his shoulder
  For athletes at their games,
  Men and women in a dance
  Moving their sweet limbs
  Quick, quick, to music,
  But there on the shining shield
  His hands had set no dancing-floor
  But a weed-choked field.
  
  A ragged urchin, aimless and alone, 
  Loitered about that vacancy; a bird
  Flew up to safety from his well-aimed stone:
  That girls are raped, that two boys knife a third,
  Were axioms to him, who’d never heard
  Of any world where promises were kept,
  Or one could weep because another wept.
  
  The thin-lipped armorer,
  Hephaestos, hobbled away,
  Thetis of the shining breasts
  Cried out in dismay
  At what the god had wrought
  To please her son, the strong
  Iron-hearted man-slaying Achilles
  Who would not live long.`,
  
  `He was found by the Bureau of Statistics to be
  One against whom there was no official complaint,
  And all the reports on his conduct agree
  That, in the modern sense of an old-fashioned word, he was a
     saint,
  For in everything he did he served the Greater Community.
  Except for the War till the day he retired
  He worked in a factory and never got fired,
  But satisfied his employers, Fudge Motors Inc.
  Yet he wasn’t a scab or odd in his views,
  For his Union reports that he paid his dues,
  (Our report on his Union shows it was sound)
  And our Social Psychology workers found
  That he was popular with his mates and liked a drink.
  The Press are convinced that he bought a paper every day
  And that his reactions to advertisements were normal in every way.
  Policies taken out in his name prove that he was fully insured,
  And his Health-card shows he was once in hospital but left it cured.
  Both Producers Research and High-Grade Living declare
  He was fully sensible to the advantages of the Instalment Plan
  And had everything necessary to the Modern Man,
  A phonograph, a radio, a car and a frigidaire.
  Our researchers into Public Opinion are content 
  That he held the proper opinions for the time of year;
  When there was peace, he was for peace:  when there was war, he went.
  He was married and added five children to the population,
  Which our Eugenist says was the right number for a parent of his
     generation.
  And our teachers report that he never interfered with their
     education.
  Was he free? Was he happy? The question is absurd:
  Had anything been wrong, we should certainly have heard.`,
  
  `This is the night mail crossing the Border,
  Bringing the cheque and the postal order,
  
  Letters for the rich, letters for the poor,
  The shop at the corner, the girl next door.
  
  Pulling up Beattock, a steady climb:
  The gradient's against her, but she's on time.
  
  Past cotton-grass and moorland boulder
  Shovelling white steam over her shoulder,
  
  Snorting noisily as she passes
  Silent miles of wind-bent grasses.
  
  Birds turn their heads as she approaches,
  Stare from bushes at her blank-faced coaches.
  
  Sheep-dogs cannot turn her course;
  They slumber on with paws across.
  
  In the farm she passes no one wakes,
  But a jug in a bedroom gently shakes.`,
  
  `Dawn freshens, Her climb is done.
  Down towards Glasgow she descends,
  Towards the steam tugs yelping down a glade of cranes
  Towards the fields of apparatus, the furnaces
  Set on the dark plain like gigantic chessmen.
  All Scotland waits for her:
  In dark glens, beside pale-green lochs
  Men long for news.`,
  
  `Letters of thanks, letters from banks,
  Letters of joy from girl and boy,
  Receipted bills and invitations
  To inspect new stock or to visit relations,
  And applications for situations,
  And timid lovers' declarations,
  And gossip, gossip from all the nations,
  News circumstantial, news financial,
  Letters with holiday snaps to enlarge in,
  Letters with faces scrawled on the margin,
  Letters from uncles, cousins, and aunts,
  Letters to Scotland from the South of France,
  Letters of condolence to Highlands and Lowlands
  Written on paper of every hue,
  The pink, the violet, the white and the blue,
  The chatty, the catty, the boring, the adoring,
  The cold and official and the heart's outpouring,
  Clever, stupid, short and long,
  The typed and the printed and the spelt all wrong.`,
  
  `Thousands are still asleep,
  Dreaming of terrifying monsters
  Or of friendly tea beside the band in Cranston's or Crawford's:
  
  Asleep in working Glasgow, asleep in well-set Edinburgh,
  Asleep in granite Aberdeen,
  They continue their dreams,
  But shall wake soon and hope for letters,
  And none will hear the postman's knock
  Without a quickening of the heart,
  For who can bear to feel himself forgotten? `,
  
  `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 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 do not give a damn,
  I cannot, now I see them, say
  I missed one terribly all day.
  
  Were all 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.`
  ]}
  
  module.exports = wHAuden