The image of the secret agent, blending locally but spiritually connected to some other place, captured by old tricks, reflecting on his unheeded insights, and facing sleepless nights before death, is all an image for life in this world. He finds a kind of beauty in this world he is secretly trying...
Control of the passes was, he saw, the key
To this new district, but who would get it?
He, the trained spy, had walked into the trap
For a bogus guide, seduced by the old tricks.
At Greenhearth was a fine site for a dam
And easy power, had they pushed the rail
Some stations nearer. They ignored his wires:
The bridges were unbuilt and trouble coming.
The street music seemed gracious now to one
For weeks up in the desert. Woken by water
Running away in the dark, he often had
Reproached the night for a companion
Dreamed of already. They would shoot, of course,
Parting easily two that were never joined.
W-h-auden released The Secret Agent on Sun Jan 01 1928.