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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=336410" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Funeral Blues</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,<br>Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,<br>Silence the pianos and with muffled drum<br>Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">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.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">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 song;<br>I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">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 wood;<br>For nothing now can ever come to any good.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Wystan+Hugh+Auden">Wystan Hugh Auden</a><div class=q>
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