May the Angels Lead You to Dog Heaven, Uggie

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Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Photo: Hubert Boesl/Corbis
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Photo: ROBYN BECK/AFP/Getty
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,
Photo: David Livingston/Getty Images
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,

Let the traffic policement 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 come to any good.

Photo: Leonard Ortiz/Corbis

—W.H. Auden, "Funeral Blues"