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”He was my north, my south, my east and west. My working week and my Sunday rest.”

16 november 2011

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 in the sky the message He is Dead.
Put crêpe 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 wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

Funeral blues W H Auden

One Comment leave one →
  1. SIS permalink
    13 mars 2013 7:16

    ❤ ❤ ❤


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