The More Loving One

For several months now, I have had in my Notes on my phone this poem by W.H. Auden entitled “The More Loving One”. I can’t exactly remember why I copied it there, but today I read it again.

Looking up at the stars, I know quite well
That, for all they care, I can go to hell,
But on earth indifference is the least
We have to dread from man or beast.

How should we like it were stars to burn
With a passion for us we could not return?
If equal affection cannot be,
Let the more loving one be me.

Admirer as I think I am
Of stars that do not give a damn,
I cannot, now I see them, say
I missed one terribly all day.

Were all stars to disappear or die,
I should learn to look at an empty sky
And feel its total dark sublime,
Though this might take me a little time.

There’s a certain sadness to it: the recognition that were the stars to stop shining in the heavens one would learn to stare at nothing but darkness above. 

But it’s the desire to be the more loving one that catches me. I would like to think that I am a grateful person: expressing my gratitude and being mindful of the gifts given. Still, I’m quite sure I am not the more loving one compared to the One who places all things before me every day. Quite regularly I walk by beauty without giving a second look; though I can’t be blamed for being incapable of the impossible task of absorbing the fullness of beauty present in each moment. 

And yet there’s something still in me that wants to be the more loving one: the one who notices when a beauty that was there before is there no longer; the one who feels sadness for such a loss and still keeps looking for the newness that follows it.

Though I know deep down that I can never be, still in front of the richness of reality, I hope that the more loving one might be me.