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 for ever: 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.

Recounted with a lovely Scottish accent in the movie Four Weddings and A Funeral. Oh boy, how I miss the old verses, the grandiosity, the unassuming rhyming, the declarative speech, the depth of emotion and gravity of thought.

I love almost every single word and line of this poem. It is most amazingly sad and definitive. Awesome imagery, just stunning.

Funeral Blues.

Funeral Blues

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