Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone, <br />Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone, <br />Silence the pianos and with muffled drum <br />Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come. <br /> <br />Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead <br />Scribbling on the sky the message He is Dead. <br />Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves, <br />Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves. <br /> <br />He was my North, my South, my East and West, <br />My working week and my Sunday rest, <br />My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song; <br />I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong. <br /> <br />The stars are not wanted now; put out every one, <br />Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun, <br />Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood; <br />For nothing now can ever come to any good.<br /><br />W.H. Auden<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/funeral-blues-2/
