You think I maybe exaggerate when I say that for almost every occasion there's an apposite Auden poem? The Romans used to have a superstitious ritual called sortes virgilianae, whereby they would, when faced with a life dilemma, flip to a random page of The Aeneid and whatever stanza they landed on, there'd be the answer, however cryptically imparted. So we're on solid ground with Auden for All Seasons.
On the phone the other day with a certain Vanity Fair columnist and he tells me of an article he's just read that mentions how Grendel in Beowulf is denied the gift of speech. Right away, the lines from "August, 1968" come rushing back:
The Ogre does what ogres can, Deeds quite impossible for man; But one prize is beyond his reach: The Ogre cannot master speech.
About a subjugated plain, Among its desperate and its slain, The Ogre stalks with hands on hips, While drivel gushes from his lips.
You can do this all the time, and I find myself recalling "Good-Bye to the Mezzogiorno" after reading this areverderci to the best show on television. (The verses after the jump).