He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working day 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.

A part of some poem scribbled about a year ago in my ancient notebook I found yesterday night.