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.
-By W. H. Auden
What a sad day for our country.
tə
