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 in the sky the message

He is Dead

Put crêpe 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 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.