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 woods:
For nothing now can ever come
to any good.