Good Night, Robin

This week, all my words are flowing as tears, in grief for the generous soul of a kind and gifted man who suffered from a disease so complex, so permeating, and so ravaging that it has yet to be understood by most.

Perhaps next week I can return with an assembly of uplifting words, but for now, those words are still forming somewhere deep within me. They need time to gestate, hopefully growing into some structure of understanding out of the hundreds of thoughts spinning in my mind at this moment. Until that time, I rely on those far wiser than me for comfort and, most of all, words.

Good night, Robin. May peace and comfort be your constant companions.

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 white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen 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 ever come to any good.

-- W.H. Auden

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