If I’ve learnt anything over the past few months, it’s who my true friends are. Graham, my son in law, offered to take a week’s leave to come over and help me in January. He arrived at Lourdes airport on a bitterly cold, windy, wet day; he’s never been here in winter before and was shocked by how foul the weather can be. All the energy I’d put into my vide maison had left me feeling flat, but with Graham’s enthusiasm I was soon back up to speed. 

We sorted stuff from the attic; piles to go to the tip, to the charity shop or to be kept and with his encouragement I started the task of rationalising my fabric store. Some fabrics I’d had for over 40 years! If I hadn’t used them yet, I was unlikely ever to do so, so they were boxed up for the charity shop; I actually managed to get rid of quite a lot. The rest we boxed up and put into the now nearly empty wood workshop, along with my sewing machines, threads and other equipment.

We also packed into boxes all the jars of chutneys, sun-dried tomatoes, lime pickle and other home produce from the arrière cuisine ; I had no idea how much there was!

My house buyers arrived with what they had described as their first load of stuff, to put in the garage. The weather was so awful that it had taken them 9 hours to drive from le Mans, instead of the usual 6. They brought three lorries full of stuff, one of which scraped and damaged the guttering on the back of the house and pushed a load of roof tiles out of place. Kieran put the tiles back in place, but could do nothing about the guttering; at least it’s not my problem.

Some local hunters turned up to help them, friends of Jeff, the buyer, as well as several other family members. I gave them all coffee to warm them up, then closed the door on them and left them to it. The garage is bursting with their stuff and there’s a lorry and a huge wooden box on the drive too. They came back the following day with workmen to estimate for various jobs; I just tried to ignore them, I don’t want to know what changes they plan to make. They both seem like nice people, but when they told me that I’m welcome to come back anytime, I just burst into tears; once I leave this house, I can never come back, it will live in my memory as it was.

Once they’d left, we went back to sorting the attic; Graham, being a photographer, was delighted to come across a slide projector and boxes of slides and we spent most of the following evenings digging out boxes of slides at random, mostly having a good laugh (and occasionally shedding a few tears) at what we found. Kieran’s promised me a digital scanner for my birthday, so I’ll be able to share them with the family. 

All too soon it was time to take Graham back to the airport; next time I see him I’ll have moved and will be living in a much smaller space, where I fully intend to live by the ethos of William Morris, who’s quoted as saying  “Have nothing in your house that you do not know to be useful or believe to be beautiful”. I must say that decluttering has lifted a huge weight from my shoulders and now that it’s nearly done I certainly don’t want to leave to my children the sort of nightmare task I’ve had to undertake over these last few months. 

Over the past several weeks I’ve been trying to clear as much stuff as possible from the house, the garage, the workshops, the bike shed and all the other outbuildings. It’s been a mammoth task, but with the help of some very good friends, I’m making progress.

Last weekend was my vide maison (garage sale); Nico and Edwige came round on Thursday to help me install trestles and planks as makeshift tables and to move all the stuff I’d collected together onto them and elsewhere in the garage. Every time I came into the house, or anywhere else, for that matter, I’d find more bits and pieces; but eventually I felt I was as ready as I could be. I spent Friday pricing every item; mostly at 1 or 2 euros, way below what stuff was worth, but every item sold would be one less to dispose of later.

Saturday dawned cold, but with the promise of warmth in the afternoon. Maithée, Mart, Nathalie, Fleur and Régine turned up to help with the steady flow of people. Things I hadn’t thought of selling, such a plants in pots, were requested, so I sold enough stuff to be able to see a difference.

Sunday was a filthy day; rain, hail and sleet were all blown into our bit of shelter by a driving wind. It was bitterly cold; I was frozen, in spite of 5 sweaters and jackets and thick tights under my jeans. I’m not sure if Isabelle, Laurence, Mart and Paul were wearing quite as many layers, but we all took turns coming into the house to warm up and make hot drinks.

Naturally, we had very few visitors.  We did, however, have a very enjoyable day, with plenty of conversation and lots of laughter.

At the end of the day we packed the less saleable stuff  into my car for the tip on Monday and the rest into boxes.

An English couple who live not far from the charity shop in Eauze, and whom I’d never met until Saturday, offered to come back, with their trailer, on Tuesday morning, to take whatever remained to the charity shop for me, which will save me hours of driving back and forth in my little car. They say that they received so much help from strangers over their first few months in France that they’re passing on the kindness – what an amazing ethos, it restores your faith in human nature.

I’ve been amazed, more times than I can remember, by the kindness of total strangers, who’ve turned up in my life, out of the blue, just when I needed them.

One day, not long before Christmas, a man messaged me; he’d been talking to a fellow teacher who’d been to my house to buy books, and who’d told him of my glut of bikes; he said he was a cyclist and enjoyed renovating bikes and could he come round? 

He’s been an absolute godsend! He’s taken bikes, stripped them down, cleaned and serviced them, often swapping parts between them to make them more saleable; he’s then put them on le bon coin (an internet selling site) and brought me the money. He refuses point blank to accept anything in return, saying that he enjoys doing this and that I obviously need the help. What a star! It must be driving his poor wife mad, I’m sure she must have things she needs doing; I know how that feels – Nick was exactly the same. Jean Michel told me one day that his wife had asked if she ought to be worried about him spending hours every afternoon at the house of an English woman; “no, of course not”, he replied, “she’s old!”. Thanks, Jean Michel !

The last English class I taught at the “clan”, a former student and lace maker arrived, bringing me a lace book mark that she’d made for me before covid. She was my only student that day, so we chatted for a while and I discovered that she’d recently started to learn to play the saxophone. I mentioned that I had three to sell, so she put me in touch with her teacher, who very kindly had a look at them and advised me what sort of prices to ask for them.

Times like this seem to bring out the best (or sometimes the worst) in people; I’ve certainly learned who my real friends are.

I woke at 4am today, feeling thoroughly chilled. I got up and put an extra cover on, but that didn’t help, so I found a hot water bottle, which did help. When I woke again, it was to discover that the hot water bottle had sprung a leak, the end of the bed was soaked.

That dealt with, I came upstairs for breakfast; it didn’t feel very warm – the heating wasn’t working. I went for a look in the chaufferie, where the “working bits” are, but all was silent and I was none the wiser, so I phoned the heating engineers (fortunately I took out a service contract earlier in the year), who will send someone round early next week.

It’s not desperately cold at the moment, so I can just light the wood burner in the daytime as well as the evenings; however, a lot of my remaining firewood is logs that are too big for the stove – they need splitting. I do have a log splitter, so I dragged it out and plugged it in. It’s not my favourite tool; it’s so powerful, it scares me, so I push the button and run away.  It made all the right noises, but nothing else happened; no movement of the two ends to split the log I’d put in. Humph! Maybe if I move the pile of logs around, I’ll find enough smallish ones. Kieran’s coming over this week ; I suspect the splitter just needs cleaning and lubricating – I hope so.

Not a great day so far!

Gemma started nagging me to visit her in Australia shortly after Nick’s death and eventually I agreed to go over in November; she did all the booking of flights for me, deciding I should stay for almost the whole month.

I was petrified at the prospect of travelling all that way on my own and nearly called the whole trip off on several occasions in the preceding weeks, but I needn’t have worried; I didn’t get lost in the airports, didn’t miss any flights and my luggage arrived in Perth with me.

We had an amazing time together; Gemma’s long awaited redundancy came through on my second day there, so we were able to spend the whole time together. It was lovely to get to know Chris a bit better and to see their beautiful home.

We visited Gemma’s friends who live on a station in the outback; 700km north east of Perth and covering 185000 acres, it extends as far as the eye can see in every direction. The earth is bright red, the vegetation is very scrubby and there’s an amazing variety of wildlife around; kangaroos, émus, bungarras (a sort of big lizard), snakes, etc, etc. Blair, Jared and their three delightful children were so welcoming, we had a fantastic couple of days with them. I will never understand, however, why anybody would choose to live in such an isolated, harsh environment, where even the nearest shop is 60km away and you have to rely on rainfall for drinking water.

Another day we went to Mandurah, a bit like a modern Venice, in that many of the houses front onto canals. Gemma’s friend’s parents live in such a house and took us for a wonderful trip around the canals on their boat. How the other half lives!

Some other friends, again boat owners, invited us to join them on a trip to Rottnest Island, so we headed off. The less said about that day though, the better , as I discovered that I’m not a good sailor. I was just pleased the family was staying overnight on Rottnest and we were taking the ferry back to Perth.

It was a fantastic holiday; I borrowed Gemma’s bike to ride up and down the coastal cycle path, joined Gemma in her yoga classes and met so many of her wonderful friends. We went to markets and visited a jazz club, went out to meet friends for breakfast and spent Sunday afternoons watching the salsa dancing at the amphitheatre on the beach. I was able to wind down a bit for the first time in months. 

Coming home wasn’t easy, but I was better motivated to start on the major pre-moving clear out than when I’d left. February is looming fast; I’m making progress, selling what I can online, giving other stuff to charity and taking yet more to the tip. Nick was such a hoarder! It’s far from easy, but in some ways it feels quite liberating to be having a good clear out.

Our friend Adrian has  played in a rock band for years; they’re good, they write their own songs and are all very proficient musicians. A few years ago Michel, the lead singer moved away; they found another singer, a nineteen year old girl called Nadia. She had a fabulous voice and for a while all went well; but gradually Nadia’s mother took over, installing herself as the band’s manager, wanting them to buy lighting systems and smoke machines; after all they were her daughter’s ticket to stardom. Eventually the base player and one of the guitarists walked out and the band folded.

In 2019 they got back together, minus Nadia and her mum, of course, but their resurrection was short lived thanks to covid.

A while ago, Adrian phoned me to say they’d started to play again, they’d got a gig booked, so would I like to go along?  I thought about my divorced friend Jan’s words; that the best advice she was ever given was NEVER to turn down an invitation. So I said yes, I’d love to.

I saw Ade at Kieran’s a couple of weeks later; he mentioned the gig again and I assured him that I’d be there. Well actually, he said, they wondered if I’d like to do some backing singing; I thought of Jan’s words, took a deep breath and said yes, I’d love to.

They’re a great bunch of guys and real perfectionists in their music; at my first rehearsal I asked what they’d like me to do, only to be told “whatever you like”! No pressure then!

The original gig was cancelled due to covid and rearranged, but I then had covid, so I haven’t sung with them in public yet, but I love rehearsals, when I can immerse myself totally in the music and forget everything else in my life.

As they say, as one door closes, another opens.

Houses don’t generally sell very quickly around here; in fact one estate agent who came round told me in no uncertain terms that my house would take a very long time to sell. Obviously that wasn’t the agent I chose.

I felt I needed to put it on the market as soon as I could and certainly before winter set in; eventually I found an agent I felt comfortable with, tackled a few bits of DIY that I felt would be useful and signed the forms. It went live one Friday evening.

The following Tuesday morning the agent brought a couple round; they’d travelled down from Le Mans and had another two viewings that afternoon, after which the agent promised to call me. He didn’t hold out much hope as this couple had been looking since June and had seen nothing they liked, but while we were speaking later in the day, he received a text….. was I sitting down?….. they’d made an offer. 

We haggled a bit over the price, and agreed that I didn’t need to have the back wall crepied. But the best bit is that they don’t want to move till mid February, giving me some time to clear stuff out and visit Gemma. I’m still reeling a bit at the speed things are happening; we’ve signed the compromis de vente (the initial commitment) and they’ve been back to choose items they want to purchase, the mower etc. So all I can do now is get on with the clearing out, a massive task, and start the search for somewhere to live.

Moving out is going to be one of the hardest things I’ve ever done; this house has been such a labour of love and is absolutely full of precious memories, but it’s far too big for me to cope with on my own, so I must be practical. Life goes on.

There’s a link below to the advert for the house; I don’t know how long it will work, but the photos are nice.

https://www.rue-principale.immo/fr/maison-vente-caupenne-darmagnac-32-141014075.html

Last Christmas Gemma gave Nick and I an amazing present; a voucher for a hot air balloon flight over the Dordogne. Obviously we hadn’t taken it by the time of Nick’s death, so Gemma agreed to go with me.

The date we booked was very close to the end of Gemma’s stay and the weather forecast wasn’t great for the Thursday morning, so the company suggested we do Wednesday evening instead. 

What an experience it was! 

There were several balloons flying in the area, it seems to be quite a centre for it.

Our balloon was enormous, as was the basket; big enough for 16 people plus the pilot. We were 12, so we had plenty of space as, once the balloon was inflated, we climbed aboard.

I don’t think I was the only one wondering if our pilot knew what he was doing at the beginning of the flight; we lifted a bit, but then stayed on the same level as we crossed above a road. We needn’t have worried however; on the far side of the road was a big field of maize, which we skimmed, the top leaves of the maize just brushing the bottom of the basket as we flew over the field. We then rose quickly before a row of trees along the edge of the Dordogne river, again just skimming the topmost leaves. 

Our pilot, a New Zealander, had done over 3000 flights in 87 countries over the past 23 years; he certainly knew exactly what he was doing. 

We rose higher and higher, though there was no sensation of movement, just a feeling of total peace and tranquility, ending up at 2200 metres altitude. No wonder everything looked so tiny below us!

All too soon, we began to descend, landing in a farmer’s field, where everyone helped to pack up the balloon before we were offered drinks and nibbles. 

An unforgettable experience.

It was Gemma’s 40th birthday in August, so she and Chris planned to visit that month, at the same time as Alex and Immy (Graham and Belle don’t like the heat).

Alex and Immy were the first to arrive; we spent some time making and hanging birthday banners and other tacky decorations which Gemma certainly appreciated when she got here.

We spent a lovely couple of weeks, swimming, eating out and doing all the other normal holiday activities.

One important thing we wanted to do was to say our final goodbyes to Nick; it would have been his birthday on August 28th, so we decided to go to the top of his favourite col, la Hourquette d’Ancizan, to scatter his ashes in his beloved Pyrenees.

The logistics took some working out, but worked perfectly in the end. We dropped Kieran and Chris in Ste Marie de Campan, at the bottom of the climb, from where they started cycling the col, carrying Nick’s ashes in a rucksack. Gemma and I drove a bit further, to Payolle, then shared the riding and driving from there, my bike only needed a slight adjustment to the saddle height to suit each of us. Alex drove Kieran’s car, with Alice, Immy, Artie and Emily, to the top of the col, from where she started walking down to meet us. We picnicked near the top and reminisced about happier times, before finding a lovely space, away from the road and overlooking the mountains, where we scattered Nick’s ashes.

It was, obviously, very emotional, but we all felt that this was exactly where he’d have wanted to be. It felt a very fitting tribute.

I can’t believe it’s been 3 months since my last post here, the time has gone so quickly, probably because I hardly have time to think these days, there’s so much to do.

This house and garden are far too big for me to manage on my own, so the decision had to be made to sell. I’ll move to Dax, to be nearer to Kieran and his family. I think it will be a very small place in Dax – the prices are way higher than they are around here. 

Obviously downsizing involves getting rid of a lot of stuff, an awful lot of stuff. You see, Nick was a hoarder, he never threw anything out. In fact at the beginning of this year, I started having a bit of a clear out; when I got to his “working clothes” drawer…… and box ……. and overflow heap, I discovered that he had no fewer than 16 pairs of working trousers, 15 sweatshirts and over 20 tee shirts, all scruffy, all for working in. Did he really need them all? Well, yes, of course he did!

It was almost impossible to walk in the garage, the abri and the cabanon; I despaired when I looked at the huge quantities of “stuff” we’d accumulated over the years.

But help was at hand; Kieran found a buyer for the digger, the trailer tent and some other bits and I called a woodworker friend, who took a lot of wood and the Renault 4 and a local garage owner offered to put the camper on his forecourt.

Maddy and Dom arrived from England; the idea was for them to alternate a few days here with a few days camping for their two weeks holiday, but it was far too hot to go camping, so they stayed here and worked from morning to night every day. Dom’s an expert at decluttering, though he needed watching as he had a tendency to throw everything out! Between us, we cleared out most of the big, most cluttered areas, taking many loads to the tip and organising what remained. Dom also organised Nick’s bike shed – a monumental task!

I called Simon, who recycles building materials, and who agreed to take away the huge pile of old roof tiles from the middle of the back garden. Maddy tackled the unenviable task of removing the brambles that were growing all over, under and through them.

Francis recommended a scrap metal merchant, who came to take away the huge heap of scrap metal that we unearthed from all over the place.

At times (well, actually, most of the time), it was very hard emotionally, seeing things thrown out that, though of no use, reminded me of Nick. Maybe it was too soon, but it needed doing and I couldn’t have tackled it on my own.

Once Maddy and Dom had left, Alex came over for a week; we planted up a flower bed where previously there were only weeds and had a lovely week together, in spite of the frequent tears. We even managed an afternoon at the jazz festival in Marciac, by chance there was a fantastic band on in the place; what luck, it made our day.

I’ve chosen an estate agent and am going to put the house on the market very soon, but in the meantime, the back wall of the house isn’t finished and looks awful, as we hadn’t got around to having it crepied. I’ve asked the builder to do it, but I think he’s probably very busy since last month’s storm, during which I lost quite a lot of tiles from various parts of the roof. A retired roofer friend came round to repair the damage for me, but looking round at fields of maize and vineyards entirely stripped of their leaves, I realise how lucky I was not to suffer serious damage.

Richard, a retired carpenter, came round a few weeks ago, to repair the workshop shutters, all of which had dropped a bit in the middle, so were very difficult to open and close. I spent the rest of that week sanding and painting them before the family arrived.

So all in all, progress is being made, even though it feels slow. I’ll try not to leave it so long before my next post; there’s plenty to report.

Lots of people have asked me for a copy of the tributes paid to Nick at his funeral. Some of you will know that we tried to livestream the service, but that the internet dropped out quite quickly.

Gemma was the first to speak, reading a eulogy of which she and Kieran were the main authors; Alice translated it into French, which Patrick, the mayor of Caupenne read.  Maurice, of the Nogaro cycle club, followed her; I’ll include a local newspaper article which summarises what he said, including the obligatory journalistic errors. Alex had spent her journey to France writing her dad a letter, an extract of which she read out, followed by her own translation; Alice checked it over for any really unacceptable errors, but Alex wanted to be truly the author of her own words. My contribution was a poem by WH Auden, which perfectly expresses my feelings; There was no way I could read it myself, so my friend Kate read it in English, followed by Jacques with the translation, again provided by Alice and much better than the google translation.

By way of explanation of something Gemma said; I put the word out that I’d love cyclists to turn up in cycling kit, even if it was just a jersey over their ordinary clothes; dozens of them did so.

Just writing this has brought home to me, once again, how lucky I am to have such an amazing family and friends; everyone has pulled together, each person doing what they could to help everyone else, be it trips to the airport, making up beds for the incredible number of people we needed to house, or simply making sure I had something to eat before I keeled over.

Gemma

Good morning,

For those who don’t know me, I’m Gemma, Nick’s eldest daughter.

I’d like to start by thanking everyone for coming today, this is an impressive turnout which is fitting because Dad was a very impressive man.

I didn’t ever think I’d be so glad to see so much lycra.

Dad was a man who built houses, who turned wood into beauty, and piles of rust into working clocks.

Few people know how much he was capable of, but a glance in his workshop, a look at his collection of carefully manicured bonsais or just a browse of his library would show the depth of his modest and unassuming expertise.

Mum and Dad met in 1975 at college, and it took him over 2 years to pluck up the courage to ask Mum out. They were married in 1980 and celebrated 42 years of marriage just last month.

They both worked in Biomedical Science and enjoyed walking, including supporting a school for the blind by guiding them along the Lyke Wake walk, a 40 mile trail which Dad completed over 40 times.

In the late eighties, we started traveling to France as a family for holidays and enjoyed staying at numerous gites, some nicer than others (remember the ant house?). It was on one such holiday that when sheltering from the rain in an estate agent’s, Mum and Dad made a spur of the moment house purchase – a dilapidated ruin with dirt floors and an outhouse in the Dordogne. This launched the twenty year French adventure which culminated in their retirement to Caupenne d’Armagnac in 2011.

For as long as I can remember, Dad’s life revolved around cycling. A major factor in him and Mum moving to this area of France was its proximity to the Pyrenees where he could spend a large portion of his retirement years cycling pretty much every col (or mountain pass) in the range.

A particular highlight for him was last September, when he managed an incredible 43 cols and over 400 kms in 4 days. There is an elite club called the hundred cols club which you need to have cycled at least 100 unique cols to join. At the end of last year, Dad was listed in the club magazine as having achieved 344 cols to date.

Dad was seemingly impervious to pain. He was able to shrug off major injuries like they were nothing and we all know how he liked to throw himself off his bike with alarming regularity!

I was talking to Dad after his most recent cycling accident, and we spoke about the life expectancy of the new ceramic hip. He said that it should last 15-20 years, and that would probably see him out. I was horrified that he would suggest he would only be around for that length of time, but he said “I don’t want to get too old and infirm, better a shorter life of greater quality”

In the next breath, he then took great pleasure in telling me that he was having his stiches out and made mention of the young nurse he was mooning at. I told him I hoped it was a young male nurse, he called me a spoil sport, but then conceded that the young nurse did indeed have a fine moustache!

One of our favourite memories of Dad was his friendship with Hermione the goose. Hermione was the most fearsome creature and hated everyone except Dad. There was a period of about a year when every photo of Dad working on the house included this proud looking goose stood next to him – protecting him from everyone and anyone who dared come close.

The thing about geese is that they can’t fly with clipped wings. But Dad really wanted Hermione to be able to fly, so regardless of whether or not he knew he had an audience, he would run up and down the garden flapping his arms, with an enthusiastic goose following him, honking her support and flapping her wings too!

Dad’s death serves as a stark reminder that life is short. That even the strongest people, the ones we thought would be there forever, are gone in the blink of an eye.

Although we are heart broken, we can take comfort from knowing that Dad spent the last four weeks of his life with family after two years of minimal contact, and it was clear to see that this made him so happy. He enjoyed over a decade of cycling and retirement in the most beautiful area with Mum and built a stunning home for them both.

Today we are crying, but his clocks are still ticking. The bikes lie dormant, and our hearts are broken but one day it will hurt a little less.

A tree which is overwatered will never grow strong roots; underwatered and it will die. Dad helped all of us grow strong roots with his consistency and calm, unwavering love and support.

I’d like to finish with a quote from a French Philosopher, Albert Camus that Dad sent me a couple of years ago when I was upset about something. It helped me then and I hope it can help us all now.

My Dear,

In the midst of hate, I found there was, within me an invincible love.

In the midst of tears, I found there was, within me an invincible smile.

In the midst of chaos, I found there was, within me an invincible calm.

I realised, through it all that…..

In the midst of winter, I found there was, within me an invincible summer.

And that makes me happy. For it says that no matter how hard the world pushes against me, within me, there’s something stronger – something better, pushing right back.

Maurice

This translates, approximately, as:

The cyclists of the Bas Armagnac club of Nogaro are grieving because their secretary, Nick Cawthray, has left them for ever. Born the 28th August 1956 in York, he studied the sciences and worked in haematology in a big lab in York( actually Leeds).  Holidays in the Dordogne led him to the purchase of a house in Caupenne d’Armagnac in the Gers, where life was quieter than in the Dordogne, and 5 years later the couple became Gersois (habitants of the Gers), renovating their house and joining the cycle club as Nick had been bitten by the cycling bug. He was a gift to our club, rapidly integrating, his natural good humour and his ease on the bike soon led him to play a larger role in the club. Elected secretary he revitalised the club, always there on the weekly runs as well as the trips to his beloved Pyrenees. He was also a member of the 100 cols club and had, up to the end of 2021, totted up 344 cols.

A wonderful person, brimming with talent and humanity, we’ll miss him. We will never forget you Nick

.Alex

One of my favourite memories of all time, Dad, was the day, one Easter, when we all went into the mountains. Belle must have been about 6 and we spent ages at the border because she thought it so funny that she was in Spain while we were all in France. As we drove on, the two of you decided to go sledging….. without a sledge.  You had a large cardboard box in the boot of the car, so decided to use that. I remember the first time the two of you tried to go down the hill, the snow was so deep that the box just sank in and you both got covered in snow.

As usual, though, you weren’t to be defeated. You kept going, again and again, until the snow was so compacted that it would have worked if the cardboard box hadn’t been so wet it was disintegrating!

It’s so cruel that the rest of your beautiful grandchildren knew you for such a short time and won’t get the joy and wisdom you gave to everything you do.

Stop all the clocks

by W.H. Auden

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.