I ran across this poem by W H Auden today. I felt like this five weeks ago. How could the earth
continue its normal orbit, or women shop for shoes, or politicians squabble over stupid things when Mark lay dead in a Bellevue hospital room? It's not like that now, still very sad but a quieter and and more accepting sadness. Life does go on, even mine.
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
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.