葬礼蓝调

Funeral Blues

WH Auden

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 aeroplane 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 ever 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.