O poeta de hoje é W.H. Auden.

Nascido em 1907 e falecido em 1973, Auden foi uma das referências das gerações inconformadas dos anos 30.
O amor, a política, a cidadania, a moral, a religião tinham lugar na sua poética.
A obra poética de Auden, é avaliada de diferentes formas. Muitos autores consideram as suas primeiras obras, as melhores. Para a crítica americana, a sua melhor fase é a dos anos posteriores à década de 30, talvez porque Auden foi para a América e acabou por se naturalizar americano.
Fica esta poesia:

In Memory of W. B. Yeats

He disappeared in the dead of winter:
The brooks were frozen, the airports almost deserted,
And snow disfigured the public statues;
The mercury sank in the mouth of the dying day.
What instruments we have agree
The day of his death was a dark cold day.

Far from his illness
The wolves ran on through the evergreen forests,
The peasant river was untempted by the fashionable quays;
By mourning tongues
The death of the poet was kept from his poems.

But for him it was his last afternoon as himself,
An afternoon of nurses and rumours;
The provinces of his body revolted,
The squares of his mind were empty,
Silence invaded the suburbs,
The current of his feeling failed; he became his admirers.

Now he is scattered among a hundred cities
And wholly given over to unfamiliar affections,
To find his happiness in another kind of wood
And be punished under a foreign code of conscience.
The words of a dead man
Are modified in the guts of the living.

But in the importance and noise of to-morrow
When the brokers are roaring like beasts on the floor of the Bourse,
And the poor have the sufferings to which they are fairly accustomed,
And each in the cell of himself is almost convinced of his freedom,
A few thousand will think of this day
As one thinks of a day when one did something slightly unusual.

What instruments we have agree
The day of his death was a dark cold day.