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 airplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message She Is Dead
Put crêpe bows around the white necks of public doves
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves

She 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 for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now; put out everyone,
Pack back the moon and dismantle the sun
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing can ever come to any good.

W.H. Auden (1907-1973)