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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 She is
dead.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of public
doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton
gloves.
She 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.
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