the more loving one
by w.h. auden
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.
