Funeral Blues

 

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 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

DIZ-ME A VERDADE SOBRE O AMOR

Alguns dizem que o amor é um rapazinho,

E outros dizem que é um passarito,

Alguns dizem que faz o mundo girar,

E outros dizem que é um mito.

E quando perguntei ao vizinho,

Que parecia ser pessoa avisada,

A mulher dele intrometeu-se e objectou

Que o amor não servia para nada.

Será como um par de pijamas,

Ou como o doce num hotel termal?

Terá um odor como o dos lamas,

Ou um cheiro mais normal?

Será áspero como os espinhos de uma sebe,

Ou será como um edredão em suavidade?

É afiado ou suave nas arestas?

Ah, sobre o amor diz-me a verdade.

Os livros de história falam dele

Em curtas notas de rodapé,

É um tópico comum nos cruzeiros

Que cruzam a maré;

Já encontrei referências ao assunto

Em relatos suicidários,

E até em frases manuscritas

Na contracapa de horários.

Será que uiva como um lobo esfomeado,

Ou ressoa como a banda militar de lei?

Poderá ser imitado na perfeição,

Com uma serra ou um piano Steinway?

O seu canto nas festas é apreciado,

Ou é apenas mais um clássico cantor?

Será que pára quando se quer ficar sossegado?

Ah, diz-me a verdade sobre o amor.

Procurei-o na casa de verão,

Nunca o encontrei de verdade,

Tentei o rio junto à foz,

E o ar tonificante da cidade,

Não sei o que cantava o melro,

Ou por quem a tulipa chama,

Não estava no quintal das galinhas,

Nem debaixo da cama.

Fará caretas destemidas,

Enjoará se balançar borda a borda?

Passará o tempo nas corridas,

Ou a tomar violino com pedaços de corda?

Terá opinião sobre o dinheiro?

Será patriota com sinceridade?

Dirá frases banais mas engraçadas?

Ah, sobre o amor diz-me a verdade.

Quando chega, chega sem avisar,

Como quem põe o dedo no nariz?

Baterá à minha porta ao madrugar,

Ou pisar-me-á no autocarro por um triz?

Chegará como uma mudança de tempo?

Será amável ou estupor?

Vai mudar a minha vida toda?

Ah, diz-me a verdade sobre o amor.

WYSTRAN HUGH AUDEN

in, TELL ME THE TRUTH ABOUT LOVE - TEN POEMS

The More Loving One

Looking up at the stars, I know quite well 

That, for all they care, I can go to hell, 

But on earth indifference is the least 

We have to dread from man or beast. 

How should we like it were stars to burn 

With a passion for us, we could not return? 

If equal affection cannot be, 

Let the more loving one be me. 

Admirer as I think I am 

Of stars that do not give a damn, 

I cannot, now I see them, say 

I missed one terribly all day. 

Were all stars to disappear or die, 

I should learn to look at an empty sky 

And feel its total dark sublime, 

Though this might take me a little time. 

W. H. Auden

in,  Homage to Clio 

O TELL ME THE TRUTH ABOUT LOVE

Some say love's a little boy, 

And some say it's a bird, 

Some say it makes the world go round,

Some say that's absurd, 

And when I asked the man next door, 

Who looked as if he knew, 

His wife got very cross indeed, 

And said it wouldn't do.

Does it look like a pair of pyjamas, 

Or the ham in a temperance hotel? 

Does its odour remind one of llamas, 

Or has it a comforting smell? 

Is it prickly to touch as a hedge is, 

Or soft as eiderdown fluff? 

Is it sharp or quite smooth at the edges? 

O tell me the truth about love.

Our history books refer to it 

In cryptic little notes, 

It's quite a common topic on

The Transatlantic boats; 

I've found the subject mentioned in

Accounts of suicides, 

And even seen it scribbled on

The backs of railway guides.

Does it howl like a hungry Alsatian, 

Or boom like a military band? 

Could one give a first-rate imitation

On a saw or a Steinway Grand? 

Is its singing at parties a riot? 

Does it only like Classical stuff? 

Will it stop when one wants to be quiet? 

O tell me the truth about love.

I looked inside the summer-house; 

It wasn't even there; 

I tried the Thames at Maidenhead, 

And Brighton's bracing air. 

I don't know what the blackbird sang, 

Or what the tulip said; 

But it wasn't in the chicken-run, 

Or underneath the bed.

Can it pull extraordinary faces? 

Is it usually sick on a swing? 

Does it spend all its time at the races, 

or fiddling with pieces of string? 

Has it views of its own about money? 

Does it think Patriotism enough? 

Are its stories vulgar but funny? 

O tell me the truth about love.

When it comes, will it come without warning

Just as I'm picking my nose? 

Will it knock on my door in the morning, 

Or tread in the bus on my toes? 

Will it come like a change in the weather? 

Will its greeting be courteous or rough? 

Will it alter my life altogether? 

O tell me the truth about love.

WYSTRAN HUGH AUDEN

in, TELL ME THE TRUTH ABOUT LOVE - TEN POEMS

FUNERAL BLUES

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 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

in, ANOTHER TIME

Are You There?

 

Each lover has a theory of his own 

About the difference between the ache

Of being with his love, and being alone:

Why what, when dreaming, is dear flesh and bone 

That really stirs the senses, when awake, 

Appears a simulacrum of his own.

Narcissus disbelieves in the unknown; 

He cannot join his image in the lake

So long he assumes he is alone.

The child, the waterfall, the fire, the stone,

Are always up to mischief, though, and take

The universe for granted as their own.

The elderly, like Proust, are always prone

To think of love as a subjective fake;

The more they love, the more they feel alone.

Whatever view we hold, it must be shown

Why every lover has a wish to make

Some other kind of otherwise his own:

Perhaps, in fact, we never are alone. 

W. H. Auden