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, my 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 up every one;

Pack up the noon and dismantle the sun;

Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;

For nothing now can ever come to any good.

                                                                                                                                                                      WH Auden (1907 – 1973)

З.Ы Наткнулась на этот стих в конце учебника. Показался красивым...ну и решила опубликовать...