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 airplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message 'He is Dead'.
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 it 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 be full. 

Visitation

   Vigil

Funeral Mass

Burial

Hillcrest Funeral Home