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 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 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.
Fotografia: Henri Cartier Bresson
