Book of poetry.

In a discussion with a friend recently I was alerted to the poem "Musee des Beaux Arts" by W.H. Auden and discovered that I have a copy of it in the house. The opening lines are as follows.

"About suffering they were never wrong,
The Old Masters: how well they understood
Its human position; how it takes place
While someone else is eating or opening a window or just walking
dully along;"