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  1. ... 442

    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 policeman wear black cotton gloves.

    He was me 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.

    Wystan Hugh Auden

    . . .

    Часы останови, забудь про телефон
    И бобику дай кость, чтобы не тявкал он. ...
    Без категории

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