3 aprile 2008

Wystan Hugh Auden, Funeral Blues

thorns.of.sadness, photo by MadMark

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.

3 commenti:

Clelia ha detto...

It's a very touching poetry! Did you write it? Congratulation for your blog it's nice!

miss piperita ha detto...

No, it's a poem by Wystan Hugh Auden.
Thank you for the compliments, I'm glad you liked my blog.

madmark ha detto...

Nice photo! :)