More poems, this time from

More poems, this time from W. H. Auden, whose work also turned up with noted frequency. These lines, set a few blocks from my house, could have been written last week, not in 1940:

The unmentionable odour of death/Offends the September night.

Here is the poem itself, and Eric McHenry’s article on Slate about Auden and poetry during difficult times.