W. H. Auden — I. Whats in your mind my dove my coney

What's in your mind, my dove, my coney; Do thoughts grow like feathers, the dead end of life; Is it making of love or counting of money, Or raid on the jewels, the plans of a thief? Open your eyes, my dearest dallier; Let hunt with your hands for escaping me; Go through the motions of exploring the familiar; Stand on the brink of the warm white day. Rise with the wind, my great big serpent; Silence the birds and darken the air; Change me with terror, alive in a moment; Strike for the heart and have me there.