on the threshold of a dream
I'm sorry for your loss, Biscuit... hope this helps.
Funeral Blues - aka Song IX
by Wynstan Hugh Auden (1907-1973)
written April 1936
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with a muffled drum
Bring out the coffin let the Mourners come.
Let the aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead
Put crepe bows round the white 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 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.
[This message has been edited by suthern (edited 01-19-2001).]