Stop all the clocks, cutt off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drums
Bring out the couffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning over ahead
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 tought 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.
11 years now…
w.h. Auden
