Some say that Love's a little boy

Some say that love's a little boy,

And some say it's a bird,

Some say it makes the world go round,

And some say that's absurd.

And when I asked the man next-door,

Who looked as if he knew,

His wife got very cross indeed,

And said it wouldn't do.

Does it look like a pair of pyjamas,

Or the ham in a tempreance hotel?

Does it odour remind one of Ilamas,

Or has it a comforting smell?

Is it prickly to touch as a hedge is,

Or soft as eiderdown fluff?

Is it sharp or quite smooth at the edges?

O tell me the truth about love.

Our history books refer to it

In cryptic little notes,

Its' guite a common topic on

The Transatlantic boats;

I've found the subject mentioned in

Accounts of suicides,

And even seen it scribbled on

The backs of railway-guides.

Does it howl like a hungry Alsatian,

Or boom like a military band?

Could one give a first-rate imitation

On a swa or a Steinway Grand?

Is its singing at parties a riot?

Does it only like Classical stuff?

Will it stop when one wants to be quiet?

O tell me the truth about love.

I looked inside the summer-house;

It wasn't ever there:

I tried the Thames at Maidenhead,

And Brighton's bracing air.

I don't know what the blackbird sang,

But it wasn't in the chicken-run,

Or underneath the bed.

Can it pull extraordinary faces?

Is it usually sick on a swing?

Does it spend all its time at the races,

Or fiddling with pieces of string?

Has it views of its own about money?

Does it think Patriotism enought?

Are its stories vulgar but funny?

O tell me the truth about love.

When it comes, will it come without warning.

Just a I'm picking my nose?

Will it knock on my door in the mroning,

Or tread in the bust on my toes?

Will it come like a change in the weather?

Will its greeting be courteous or rought?

Will it alter my life altogether?

O tell me the truth about love.

W.H.AUDEN (1907-73)