Funeral Blues

by suu4leaf

Suddenly I am reminded of the film Four Weddings And A Funeral. It is not Hugh Grant that I remember though, but W. H. Auden’s celebrated poem.


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 moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He is Dead.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He 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.




This poem I dedicate to you whom I dared not touch today, and you who also lost your dear one, there at the same place, 5.5 years ago.

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