Funeral Blues

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 moumers come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message "He Is Dead",
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policeman wear black cotton gloves.

He was may North, my South, my East an West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever, 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, 1907-1973