Since W.H. Auden
On a mid-December day, frying sausages for myself, I abruptly felt under fingers thirty years younger the rim of a steering wheel, on my cheek the parching wind of an August noon, as passenger beside me You as then you were. Slap across a veg-growing alluvial plain we raced in clouds of white dust, and geese fled screaming as we missed them by inches, making a bee-line for mountains gradually enlarging eastward, joyfully certain nightfall would occasion joy. It did. In a flagged kitchen we were served boiled trout and a rank cheese: for a while we talked by the fire, then, carrying candles, climbed steep stairs. Love was made then and there: so halcyoned, soon we fell asleep to the sound of a river swabbling through a gorge. Since then, other enchantments have blazed and faded, enemies changed their address, and War made ugly an uncountable number of unknown neighbors, precious as us to themselves: but round your image there is no fog, and the earth can still astonish. Of what, then, should I complain, pottering about a neat suburban kitchen? Solitude? Rubbish! It's social enough with real faces and landscapes for whose friendly countenance I at least can learn to live with obesity and a little fame.