Det kommer. Tills dess;
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 forever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now: put out everyone
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the world
For nothing now can ever come to any good