Tuesday, December 05, 2006


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 drumBring out the coffin, let the mourners come.Let aeroplanes circle moaning overheadScribbling on the sky the message She is Dead.Put crepe bows round the white necks of the 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 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.W.H. Auden
posted by azmi rasa at 9:51 PM Oct 03 2006

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