Stop all the clocks
Cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dpog from barking
With a juicy bone.
Silence the pianos and,
With muffled drums,
Bringa out the coffin
Let the mournes come.
Let the aeroplanes circles
Mourning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message:
He is dead!
Put crpe bows round the whuite knecs
Of the public doves.
Let traffica policemen wear
Black cotton gloves.
He was my north, my Spouth,
My East, and West
My morning week,
My Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight,
My talk , my song,
I thought 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 wood!
For nothing, now, can ever come to any good.
Funeral Blues (Stop all the clocks... )
Wistan Hugh Auden