THE VOICE OF ENIGMA

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telefone,
prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin,let the the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He is Dead,
Put the 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 wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.