Funeral Blues by W. H. Auden read by Tom Hiddleston
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.
(Source: hxcfairy, via )
Seriously. This last line.
The exhibition begins with an appropriately Poe-like touch: a case by the door containing his first coffin. (Poe moldered for years in an unmarked grave, after a derailed train smashed a headstone intended to mark the spot. In 1875, he was dug up and interred again.)
I want this on my wall.
Sean Nelson Reads Leonard Cohen
Fictitious Dishes, Famous Meals From Literature by Dinah Frie
I don’t know what else to tell you. Oscar Wilde almost definitely had sex with Walt Whitman.