Funeral Blues

Stop all the clocks
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos with muffled drums
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead,
Scribbling on the sky the message He is Dead,
Put crêpe 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 everyone,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the woods;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

W.H. Auden
Copyright The W.H Auden Society