Funeral Blues
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone.
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone
Silence the piano and with muffled drum
Bring out the piano, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky, He Is Dead
Put crepe bows around the white necks of the public doves
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves
He was my North, my South, my East, my 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
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