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 mourners 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 policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and 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 every one,
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.

by W. H. Auden

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Auden,

You distilled sincere the utter despair,
We all have felt or may someday bear.
Of a soul's cry beyond any repair.
Perhaps our Condition's saddest share.
Am lucky to partake of your heart's fare,
Share with you this Earth, our dearest lair.
Even the inanimate pen, I upon God swear,
Must have so despaired when you left life's care.

yours humbled,
Narimus