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.