|Damien's Inspirations and Links|
|Home -> Inspirations -> Poems -> Funeral Blues||Guestbook | Mail Me|
By W. H. Auden
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum,
Let the airplanes circle moaning overhead
Put great bows around the white necks of the public doves.
He was my north, my south, my east, and west,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song.
The stars are not wanted now, put out every one.
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.