Stop all the clocks, cut of 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 aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead
Put crêpe 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 workingweek and my Sundayrest
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song
I thought that love would last forever: 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.
W. H. Auden
W. H. Auden también escribió: El arte surje, por una parte, de nuestros deseos de belleza y verdad, y, por otra, de nuestro conocimiento de que ambas cosas no son iguales.
