FUNERAL BLUES

FUNERAL BLUES by 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

He is dead
put crepe bows round the white neck of the public doves
let the traffic policemen wear black cotton glove

she was my north, my south, my east and my 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 everyone;
pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood
for nothing can ever come to any good

oOo
'All parents damage their children. It cannot be helped. Youth, like pristine glass, absorbs the prints of its handlers. Some parents smudge, others crack, a few shatter childhood completely into jagged little pieces, beyond repair.'--from Five People You Meet in Heaven by Mitch Albom