Stops the clocks, the phone is removed, Keep good dog with a juicy bone, 

Let silence the pianos and with muffled drum Expose the coffin, receive those who are grieving

 Let airplanes circle moaning overhead Scribbling high chagrin writing in the sky the message 

He Died, Adornate crape the metropolitan pigeons neck, Do wear gloves blacks to city police. He was my North, my South, my East and my West, My working week and my Sunday to doing nothing, 

My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song, I thought that the 'love would last forever: I was wrong time. 

The stars are not: turn them off one by one; Dismantled and packed the sun the moon; 

Emptied the ocean, uprooted plants. Because now nothing will be important. 

W.H Auden