Bedroom by Miles Redd
Beth, of Style Redux, posted an appropriate poem for the reason we gather here. We’ll hear from Beth later this week with a guest post, but in the meantime, enjoy the pic of her favorite Domino room on the left, a few words from her post about Domino’s demise, as well as a poem by W.H. Auden:
“Domino was a magazine that valued style, not price tags. Job well done, but you were with us too short a time. Here is a lovely poem to honor the passing of an outstanding magazine.”
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 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.