Eva Maria Helfrich

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
prevent the dog from barking with a jucy bone,
silence the pianos and with a muffeled drum
bring out the coffin, let the mournors come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
scribbling on the sky 'She is dead'.
put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

She was my North, my South, my East and my West,
my working week and my sinday 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 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.