Aubade
I work all day, and get half-drunk at night. Waking at four to soundless
dark, I stare. In time the curtain-edges will grow light. Till then I see what's really always there: Unresting
death, a whole day nearer now, Making all thought impossible but how And where and when I shall myself die. Arid
interrogation: yet the dread Of dying, and being dead, Flashes afresh to hold and horrify. The mind blanks at
the glare. Not in remorse - The good not done, the love not given, time Torn off unused - nor wretchedly because An
only life can take so long to climb Clear of its wrong beginnings, and may never; But at the total emptiness for ever,
The sure extinction that we travel to And shall be lost in always. Not to be here, Not to be anywhere, And
soon; nothing more terrible, nothing more true.
This is a special way of being afraid No trick dispels. Religion
used to try, That vast, moth-eaten musical brocade Created to pretend we never die, And specious stuff that says
No rational being Can fear a thing it will not feel, not seeing That this is what we fear - no sight, no sound, No
touch or taste or smell, nothing to think with, Nothing to love or link with, The anasthetic from which none come
round.
And so it stays just on the edge of vision, A small, unfocused blur, a standing chill That slows each
impulse down to indecision. Most things may never happen: this one will, And realisation of it rages out In furnace-fear
when we are caught without People or drink. Courage is no good: It means not scaring others. Being brave Lets
no one off the grave. Death is no different whined at than withstood.
Slowly light strengthens, and the room takes
shape. It stands plain as a wardrobe, what we know, Have always known, know that we can't escape, Yet can't accept.
One side will have to go. Meanwhile telephones crouch, getting ready to ring In locked-up offices, and all the uncaring
Intricate rented world begins to rouse. The sky is white as clay, with no sun. Work has to be done. Postmen
like doctors go from house to house.
Tou's Interpretation
This poem is talking about the fear of dying and realizing that the time has not come for him to
die. It is also talking about the fear of closing the eyes and not being able to open again to see the next day.
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