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
roaming overhead
scribbling on the sky
the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks
of public doves,
Let the traffic policemen
wear black cotten gloves.

He was my North, my South
my East and West,
My working week
and my Sunday rest,
My moon, my midnight,
my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever:
I was wrong.

The star 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.

(W.H. Anden)