Almost happy now, he looked at his estate. <br />An exile making watches glanced up as he passed, <br />And went on working; where a hospital was rising fast <br />A joiner touched his cap; an agent came to tell <br />Some of the trees he'd planted were progressing well. <br />The white alps glittered. It was summer. He was very great. <br /> <br />Far off in Paris, where his enemies <br />Whsipered that he was wicked, in an upright chair <br />A blind old woman longed for death and letters. He would write <br />"Nothing is better than life." But was it? Yes, the fight <br />Against the false and the unfair <br />Was always worth it. So was gardening. Civilise. <br /> <br />Cajoling, scolding, screaming, cleverest of them all, <br />He'd had the other children in a holy war <br />Against the infamous grown-ups, and, like a child, been sly <br />And humble, when there was occassion for <br />The two-faced answer or the plain protective lie, <br />But, patient like a peasant, waited for their fall. <br /> <br />And never doubted, like D'Alembert, he would win: <br />Only Pascal was a great enemy, the rest <br />Were rats already poisoned; there was much, though, to be done, <br />And only himself to count upon. <br />Dear Diderot was dull but did his best; <br />Rousseau, he'd always known, would blubber and give in. <br /> <br />So, like a sentinel, he could not sleep. The night was full of wrong, <br />Earthquakes and executions. Soon he would be dead, <br />And still all over Europe stood the horrible nurses <br />Itching to boil their children. Only his verses <br />Perhaps could stop them: He must go on working: Overhead <br />The uncomplaining stars composed their lucid song.<br /><br />W.H. Auden<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/voltaire-at-ferney-2/
