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 crepe bows round the
white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen
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 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 wood.
For nothing now can ever come
to any good.
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