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She 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 ever come to any good.