Funeral Blues
Stop all the
clocks, cut off the telephone.
Prevent the dog from the barking with a juicy bone.
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum,
Bring out the coffin, let the mowrners come.
Let the airplanes circle moaning overhead.
Scribbling on the sky the message " He is dead "
Put great bows around the white necks of the public doves.
Let traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my north, my south, my east, my 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 everyone.
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun.
Pour away the ocean and saved up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
~W.H. Auden~
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english rhyme |
say "I Love You" |
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