Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone.
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone.
Silence the pianos and, with muffled drums.
Bring on the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let airplanes circle moaning overhead
scribbling on the sky the message he's dead.
Put crepe-bows round the white necks of the public doves
let the traffic policeman wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West
my working week, my Sunday rest.
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my songs
I thought that love would last forever, I was wrong
The stars are not wanted now, put out every one.
Pack up the moon, dismantle the sun.
Pour away the oceans and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can come to any good.
--W. H. Auden (1907 - 1973)
submitted
by Wendell Ricketts
