Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone

Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone

Silence the pianos and with muffled drums

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 my 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 dismantled the sun;

Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;

For nothing now can ever come to any good.

W.H. Auden (1907-1973)