lirik lagu john laurie - w.h. auden: night mail
this is the night mail crossing the border
bringing the cheque and the postal order
letters for the rich, letters for the poor
the shop at the corner, the girl next door
pulling up beattock, a steady climb:
the gradient’s against her, but she’s on time
past cotton~grass and moorland boulder
shovelling white steam over her shoulder
snorting noisily as she passes
silent miles of wind~bent grasses
birds turn their heads as she approachеs
stare from bushes at her blank~facеd coaches
sheep~dogs cannot turn her course;
they slumber on with paws across
in the farm she passes no one wakes
but a jug in a bedroom gently shakes
dawn freshens, her climb is done
down towards glasgow she descends
towards the steam tugs yelping down a glade of cranes
towards the fields of apparatus, the furnaces
set on the dark plain like gigantic chessmen
all scotland waits for her:
in dark glens, beside pale~green lochs
men long for news
letters of thanks, letters from banks
letters of joy from girl and boy
receipted bills and invitations
to inspect new stock or to visit relations
and applications for situations
and timid lovers’ declarations
and gossip, gossip from all the nations
news circumstantial, news financial
letters with holiday snaps to enlarge in
letters with faces scrawled on the margin
letters from uncles, cousins, and aunts
letters to scotland from the south of france
letters of condolence to highlands and lowlands
written on paper of every hue
the pink, the violet, the white and the blue
the chatty, the catty, the boring, the adoring
the cold and official and the heart’s outpouring
clever, stupid, short and long
the typed and the printed and the spelt all wrong
thousands are still asleep
dreaming of terrifying monsters
or of friendly tea beside the band in cranston’s or crawford’s:
asleep in working glasgow, asleep in well~set edinburgh
asleep in granite aberdeen
they continue their dreams
but shall wake soon and hope for letters
and none will hear the postman’s knock
without a quickening of the heart
for who can bear to feel himself forgotten?
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