Funeral Blues- W.H. Auden
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone
prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
silence the pianos and with muffled drum
bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He is dead,
put crêpe bows round the white neck of the public doves,
let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
my working week and my Sunday rest,
my moon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever. I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now; put out every one;
pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
poor away the ocean und sweep up the wood;
for nothing now can ever come to any good.
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