Funeral Blues

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 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.

W.H. Auden