Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crêpe 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.
After the  hyperbolic  statements that preceeded this line, we return to the mundane. Like giving the dog a juicy bone, the lyricism is replaced by the prosaic ‘nothing now can ever come to any good’. 
 So the poem ends pessimistically; the culmination of anxiety and despair, hopelessness and depression, characteristic of Auden in the 1930s, a period he termed the  Age of Anxiety . The poem, as well as expressing deep grief, reflects the state of society of the time: the Great Depression, the Spanish Civil War and the rise of Hitler and Nazism. 
 W.H. Auden: 1907-1973.” The Poetry Foundation.  Monroe Poetry Institute
Funeral Blues Stop all the clocks