Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with a muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let the aeroplanes circle moaning over-head
Scribbling on the sky the message
He is dead,
Put crepe bows round the necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East, my West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My moon, my mid-night, 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 woods;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

~: Dedicated to the victims of war :~

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