<...> 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