Funeral Blues (W. H. Auden)
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Stop all the clocks
cut off the telephone
prevent the dog from barking
with a juicy bone.
Silence the piano's.
And with muffled* drum
bring out the coffin.
Let the mourners* come.
Let the aeroplanes circle all mourning overhead
scribbing in the sky the message:
He is dead.
Put crepe bows* round the white necks
of the public doves*.
Let traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my south, my north
my east and west.
My working week, my Sunday rest.
My noon, my midnight
my talk, my song.
I taught that love would last forever
I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now
put out everyone.
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun.
Pour* away the ocean
sweep up the wood.
FOR NOTHING NOW
CAN EVER COME
TO ANY GOOD.