Funeral Blues

Line 1 no need to think that time is an essence emotional satirical hyperbole 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, Line 7 during the early thirties, it was fashionable to wear crepe bows to honour the deceased letting Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves, white doves out of a cage during a funeral Line 8 public are wearing black, Let the traffic policeman wear black cotton gloves.

Line 9 every point of the compass question whether everyone can be everywhere repetition of my

He was my North, my South, my East and West, My working week and my Sunday rest,

Line 11 repetition of pronoun my followed by a list possessive, flowing constants

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 come to any good.