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 crêpe 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 tone shifts from one of sorrow and mourning to  sorrow and love. The reference to the points of the compass indicate the all encompassing nature of his love. 
 
 It is worth noting that the structure of the poem represents the stages of mourning; firstly the inner feelings of grief, then the activity involved in the practicalities of the funeral broadening to draw in the world, and now a recongition of their love.
Funeral Blues Stop all the clocks