Stop all the clocks

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
 Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
 Put crêpe bows around the white necks of the public doves,
 Let the traffic policeman 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.
 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.