W. H. Auden - Funeral Blues

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.