Funeral Blues

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  • čas přidán 23. 07. 2016
  • This is Funeral Blues, by W. H. Auden, as performed by John Hannah in Four Weddings and a Funeral.
    Auden wrote the poem in a different form in 1936 (remarkably, as satire) , but amended it significantly in 1938 for a different purpose. The final lyrics are as follows:
    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 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 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.
    The 1936 version was surprisingly humorous (in a dark sort of way), sharing only the first two stanzas with the poem most have come to know:
    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.
    Hold up your umbrellas to keep off the rain
    From Doctor Williams while he opens a vein;
    Life, he pronounces, it is finally extinct.
    Sergeant, arrest that man who said he winked!
    Shawcross will say a few words sad and kind
    To the weeping crowds about the Master-mind,
    While Lamp with a powerful microscope
    Searches their faces for a sign of hope.
    And Gunn, of course, will drive a motor-hearse:
    None could drive it better, most would drive it worse.
    He’ll open up the throttle to its fullest power
    And drive him to the grave at ninety miles an hour.

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