Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone, prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone, silence the pianos with a 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 crepe bows round the white necks of public doves. Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North my South my East and West. My working week 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 everyone; Pack up the moon dismantle the sun; Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood; For nothing now can ever come to any good.