No longer as lovely on Buhlaland

W. H. Auden
Vintage

I
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 crêpe 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.

My beloved went to heaven on June 6th - no words from me could explain how he changed my life for the better.  God is faithful to comfort and provide and I'll survive this - but at the moment hard to express how my heart is breaking.  It is still good on Buhlaland - we'll be together again some sweet day.