Funeral Blues

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Can you complete W. H. Auden's Funeral Blues?

Featured Apr 3, 2009

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     all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
        the     from barking      a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
          the coffin,     the mourners      
Let airplanes circle moaning overhead
           on the sky the         He Is      
Put crepe bows       the white       of the              
    the         policemen      black               
He was my North, my South, my      and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my      
I         that      would last for ever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted      put out every one;
Pack up the      and dismantle the     
Pour away the       and sweep up the wood.
For nothing         ever come to any good.

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Created Apr 3, 2009Report
Tags:Lyrics, song, auden, blue, funeral, Funeral Blues, H Auden