Funeral Blues
BY W. H. AUDEN
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Avoid the pet from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with smothered drum
Highlight the coffin, allow the mourners come.
Allow aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He is Dead.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Allow the website traffic policemen wear black cotton handwear covers.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noontime, my twelve o’clock at night, my talk, my song;
I assumed that love would certainly last for life: I was incorrect.
The stars are not desired now; produce each,
Pack up the moon and take down the sun,
Pour away the ocean and scoop the timbers;
For nothing now can ever before concern any type of excellent.