Monday, September 17, 2007


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 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 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.

W. H. Auden (1936)

listenning to Ex-Cathedra


sa said...

tão pessimista a letra mas bonita

Fallen, The Countess said...

Eu sei, mas não te preocupes, não estou triste, nem nada que se pareça...Mas achei o poema tão belo, tão sentido, tão profundo... E divaguei no tempo para acontecimentos que fizeram dessas palavras uma realidade... ;)