Four Weddings and a Funeral
Funeral Blues by W. H. Auden
Stop all the clocks, 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 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.
True love. In whatever shape or form it may come. May we all in our dotage be proud to say I was adored once, too.
I’ve got a new theory about marriage. Two people are in love, they live
together. And one day they run out of conversation. Totally, they can’t
think of a single thing to say to each other. That’s it. Panic. Then
suddenly, it occurs to the chap. That there is a way out of the
He’ll ask her to marry him. They’ve got something to talk about for the rest of their lives.
You should marry the person you love with your whole heart.