Dover W. H. Auden

Steep roads, a tunnel through chalk downs, are the approaches;
A ruined pharos overlooks a constructed bay;
The sea-front is almost elegant; all the show
Has, inland somewhere, a vague and dirty root:
        Nothing is made in this town.

A Norman castle, dominant, flood-lit at night,
Trains which fume in a station built on the sea,
Testify to the interests of its regular life:
Here dwell the experts on what the soldiers want,
        And who the travellers are

Whom ships carry in or out between the lighthouses,
Which guard for ever the made privacy of this bay
Like twin stone dogs opposed on a gentleman's gate.
Within these breakwaters English is properly spoken,
        Outside an atlas of tongues.

The eyes of departing migrants are fixed on the sea,
Conjuring destinies out of impersonal water:
"I see an important decision made on a lake,
An illness, a beard, Arabia found in a bed,
        Nanny defeated, Money."

Red after years of failure or bright with fame,
The eyes of homecomers thank these historical cliffs:
"The mirror can no longer lie nor the clock reproach;
In the shadow under the yew, at the children's party,
        Everything must be explained."