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

extract taken from
Funeral Blues
by
W.H.Auden

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