Funeral Blues
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 crepe
bows round the white necks 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 noon, 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,
Pour away
the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing
now can ever come to any good.
W.H.Auden
