Tuesday, February 24, 2009

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 wood;
        For nothing now can ever come to any good.

i adore this poem. first came across it in yep, you guessed it, lit class in high school.

i find it fascinating to wikipedia/google poets, although sometimes they lose some of their mysterious cool when it do that.

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