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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. |
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Love is, above all, the gift of oneself. - Jean Anouilh, When I am sad and
weary. When I think all hope has gone. Those have most power to hurt us that we love. - Francis Beaumont,
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About us. General queries and emails to |
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Last updated 18 April 2010 Copyright © Paul Ward 2000 - 2010 |
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Love is, above all, the gift of oneself. - Jean Anouilh, When I am sad and
weary. When I think all hope has gone. Those have most power to hurt us that we love. - Francis Beaumont,
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