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 mourners come.
Let the airplanes circle, moaning overhead,
scribbling on the sky the message: He is dead.
Put great bows around the necks of the public doves.
Let traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my north, my south, my east and west.
My working day 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 dismantle the sun.
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can do to any good.