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.

W.H. Auden

2 svar på ”Funeral blues”

  1. Nej du missuppfattar ej, det går i sammma “anda”. Det var en slump, en fin slump kanske. Dock fick jag en känsla när jag publicerade inlägget att du också nån gång bak i tiden hade publicerat denna dikt på din blogg, men det hade du ju inte…tänker inte så bra idag, det är ju söndag.

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