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 crepe bows 'round the necks of public doves, let traffic policemen wear black, cotton gloves.
...
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...

W.H. Auden