<html><head></head><body style="word-wrap: break-word; -webkit-nbsp-mode: space; -webkit-line-break: after-white-space; "><div><font><font>Funeral Blues</font></font></div><div><span><br></span></div><div><span>Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone, <br>Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone, <br>Silence the </span>pianos<span> and with muffled drum <br>Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come. <br><br>Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead <br>Scribbling on the sky the message He is Dead. <br>Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves, <br>Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves. <br><br>He was my North, my South, my East and West, <br>My working week and my Sunday rest, <br>My noon, my midnight, my talk, my </span>song;<span> <br>I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong. <br><br>The stars are not wanted now; put out every one, <br>Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun, <br>Pour away the ocean and sweep up the woods; <br>For nothing now can ever come to any good. <br><br><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>- W.H. Auden</span></div><div><span><br></span></div><div style="font-size: 16px; "><font class="Apple-style-span" face="'Times New Roman'"><br></font></div></body></html>