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 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.