ed ora una poesia
FUNERAL BLUES DI W.H. AUDEN
Stop all the clockst, 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 policeman 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
