FUNERAL BLUE’S
By W.H. Auden
Stop all the clock’s, cut off the phone,
Prevent the dog from barking, with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos with muffled drum,
Bring out the coffin, let the Mourners come
Let aeroplanes circle, moaning over head,
Scribbling on the sky, the message “He is Dead”,
Put crepe bows ’round the neck of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear white 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.
