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
scribbbling on the sky the message He Is Dead
put crepe 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 forever
i was wrong
- w. h. auden
