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W. H. Auden

W. H. Auden

Three Short Poems

The underground roads
Are, as the dead prefer them,
Always tortuous.
 
                . . .
 
When he looked the cave in the eye,
Hercules
Had a moment of doubt.
 
                . . .
 
Leaning out over
The dreadful precipice,
One contemptuous tree.

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