Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone
Silence the pianos, and with muffled drums
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message
"He is death"
...
Let the policeman wear black cotton gloves
He was my north, my south, my east and west
My working week and my Sunday rest
He was my noon, my midnight, my talk, my song,
I thought love would last forever I was wrong.
~W.H. Auden
