Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead.

Put crepe bows round the white necks of 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 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 ever come to any good. ”

人群中传来一阵低低的抽泣声。

她的身子晃了晃，短短几句话仿佛耗尽了她全身力气。先前抱着遗像的那位女士走到她身旁，扶住她的肩膀，半是强迫地把她带了下去。

他忽然觉得眼睛酸涩，喉咙里好像堵了一块石头。抬头时，只见天空不知道什么时候飘起了细雪，细碎晶莹的雪片打着旋从空中落下，很快就为新坟盖上了一层薄薄的白色。