The TV was full blast with Billy Graham’s funeral services this week. In honor of a remarkable man. I watched and watched as people honored him, to include President Trump. It reminded me of this poem, Funeral Blues, and my sadness of when my father died. One man honored, publicly and one man honored privately, same impact?
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
You can listen here too!
0 Comments