| Current mood: |  sleepy |
| Current music: | Pretty- Kidney Theives |
Don't know the Name of this Poem
I got this off of my best friend's window when i went to visit ppl at Guelph.
"Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone.
Prevent the dog barking with a juicy bone.
Silence the pianos and with the muffled drums.
Being out the coffin... let the mourners come.
Let the aeroplanes circle, moaning overhead.
Scribble in the sky the message: "He is dead."
Out the crepe bows round the necks of public cloves.
Let traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East, my West.
My working week and Sunday rest.
My moon, my midnight, my talk, and my song.
I thought love would last forever, I was wrong.
The stairs are not wanted now, put out everyone.
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun.
Pour out the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing can ever coe to any good.
--W.H Auden
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