Funeral Blues - W.H. AUDEN

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 het mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on het sky the message He is Dead,
Put crêpe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the trafic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

Het 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 for ever: 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 swep up the wood;
For nothing now can even come to any good.