Put Crepe Bows Round the White Necks of the Public Doves

I stumbled upon this poem one day, my freshman year in college. My father was ill, for the first of many, many times and it spoke to me-as Auden speaks to me like no other.

The day we scattered my father's ashes into the Atlantic I gave a copy of this poem to my mother. We three women were too beside ourselves with grief to read it in front of the other mourners gathered on the beach, huddled behind the piper who piped my father out of this world and onto the next.

Each time I see these words, I remember his strength, his kindness and everything he was to everyone who knew him. It's been eleven years today since he closed his eyes for the very last time. Every time I look at my sister, I see him in her big blue eyes. That twinkle of mischief he had glows out of her and into me. I know how lucky I am to have her..to be her friend at long last. We are the shards and remnants of a good man-not a perfect man. But a good one.
I still miss him. Still, and deeply.


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 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.