W.H. Auden – Brussels in Winter

Wandering through cold streets tangled like old string,
Coming on fountains rigid in the frost,
Its formula escapes you; it has lost
The certainty that constitutes a thing.

Only the old, the hungry and the humbled
Keep at this temperature a sense of place,
And in their misery are all assembled;
The winter holds them like an Opera-House.

Ridges of rich apartments loom to-night
Where isolated windows glow like farms,
A phrase goes packed with meaning like a van,

A look contains the history of man,
And fifty francs will earn a stranger right
To take the shuddering city in his arms.

(W.H. Auden – York, 21 February 1907 – 29 September 1973)

Comments

[Jack Ross]

Ah, I think you've missed out line 3 of the poem:

"Its formula escapes you; it has lost"

[Phillip Hill]

Thanks a lot, I've put it right now.