He is dead

                   
"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 the aeroplanes 

circle moaning overhead.               
Scribbling on the sky 

the message: He ls Dead.             

Put crepe bows round the white necks 

of the public doves,                   
Let 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."   

WH Auden.