Dear, though the night is gone
Its dream still haunts today,
That brought us to a room
Cavernous, lofty as
A railway terminus,
And crowded in that room
Were beds, and we in one
In a far corner lay.
Our whisper woke no clocks,
We kissed and I was glad
At everything you did,
Indifferent to those
Who sat with hostile eyes
In pairs on every bed,
Arms round each others necks,
Inert and vaguely sad.
O but what worm of guilt
Or what malignant doubt
Am I the victim of,
That you then, unabashed,
Did what I never wished,
Confessed another love;
And I, submissive, felt
Unwanted and went out.

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First published in New Verse, April-May 1936, revised 1936

Composition:

Set to music by Ned Rorem (1923 - 2022), "Dear, though the night is gone", 1997, published 1999, from Evidence of Things Not Seen, no. 21

Text Authorship:

• by W. H. (Wystan Hugh) Auden (1907 - 1973), "The dream"

See other settings of this text.

Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]

This text was added to the website: 2004-08-04
Line count: 24
Word count: 111