Perhaps you will forgive me if I turn from my own feelings to the words of another splendid bugger, W.H. Auden. This is actually what I want to say:

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone
Prevent the dog from barking with the juicy bone
Silence the pianos and, with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin. Let the mourners come

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling in the sky the message: “He is dead!”
Put crepe bows around 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 Sunday rest
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song
I thought that love would last forever; 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 come to any good