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�Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,�
� Silence the pianos and with muffled drum�
�Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
�Scribbling on the sky the message He is Dead.
�Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
�Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
��
�My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
�I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.
�He was my North, my South, my East and West,
�My working week and my Sunday rest,�
�
� For nothing now can ever come to any good.
�Pour away the ocean and sweep up the woods;��
�Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,�
�The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
�
Vocabulary - Phrasal Verbs
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