A Poem About Death by W H Awden

John, would you like me to read a poem about death that sounds like the kind of thing that you do? This poem is by w h awdon. I apologize in advance for its not being shorter, but it's still fairly short. 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. 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. He was my north, my south, my east and west, my working week and my sunday