Funeral Blues by W.H. Auden
I remember this being part of our first conversation: you said you liked Auden, and I almost said I like you. But because I’m a dork, I said, youuuuHugh Grant. And then you said, well now we have something in common, and I said, Four Weddings and A Funeral! Later on, when I told you all about it in bed, I said, you must think I’m such a dork, and you said, well, you’re my dork, and I suppose that made all the difference.
I don’t know why I’m thinking about this now.
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 woods;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
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