For poetry makes nothing happen: it survives In the valley of its making where executives Would never want to tamper, flows on south From ranches of … - W. H. Auden

Slowly we are learning,
We at least know this much,
That we have to unlearn
Much that we were taught,
And are growing chary
Of emphatic dogmas;
Love like Matter is much
Odder than we thought.

O plunge your hands in water, Plunge them in up to the wrist; Stare, stare in the basin And wonder what you've missed.<p>'The glacier knocks in the cupboard, The desert sighs in the bed, And the crack in the tea-cup opens A lane to the land of the dead.

To have a sense of sin means to feel guilty at there being an ethical choice to make, a guilt which, however "good" I may become, remains unchanged.