Philip Larkin

(9 August 1922 – 2 December 1985 / West Midlands / England)

Philip Larkin Poems

If you see a poem only with title, it is listed that way because of copyright reasons.
1. The Spirit Wooed 1/1/2004
2. Story 1/3/2003
3. The Little Lives Of Earth And Form 1/3/2003
4. New Eyes Each Year 1/3/2003
5. Send No Money 1/3/2003
6. Triple Time 1/3/2003
7. TrÄUmerei 1/13/2003
8. Since The Majority Of Me 1/3/2003
9. This Is The First Thing 1/3/2003
10. Like The Train's Beat 1/3/2003
11. Skin 1/3/2003
12. Modesties 1/3/2003
13. The View 3/19/2003
14. Night Music 1/3/2003
15. Solar 1/3/2003
16. Myxomatosis 1/3/2003
17. Money 1/3/2003
18. He Hears That His Beloved Has Become Engaged 1/3/2003
19. Long Sight In Age 1/3/2003
20. Vers De SociÉTÉ 1/13/2003
21. The School In August 1/3/2003
22. Maturity 1/3/2003
23. The Building 1/3/2003
24. The Mower 1/3/2003
25. To Put One Brick Upon Another 1/3/2003
26. I Have Started To Say 1/3/2003
27. How Distant 1/3/2003
28. The Importance Of Elsewhere 1/3/2003
29. If Hands Could Free You, Heart 1/3/2003
30. Wants 1/3/2003
31. To My Wife 1/13/2003
32. Whatever Happened? 1/3/2003
33. Next Please 1/3/2003
34. I Remember, I Remember 1/3/2003
35. Reasons For Attendance 1/3/2003
36. Maiden Name 1/3/2003
37. Mcmxiv 1/3/2003
38. Nothing To Be Said 1/3/2003
39. Friday Night At The Royal Station Hotel 1/3/2003
40. Lines On A Young Lady's Photograph Album 1/3/2003
Best Poem of Philip Larkin

Aubade

I work all day, and get half-drunk at night.
Waking at four to soundless dark, I stare.
In time the curtain-edges will grow light.
Till then I see what's really always there:
Unresting death, a whole day nearer now,
Making all thought impossible but how
And where and when I shall myself die.
Arid interrogation: yet the dread
Of dying, and being dead,
Flashes afresh to hold and horrify.
The mind blanks at the glare. Not in remorse
- The good not done, the love not given, time
Torn off unused - nor wretchedly because
An only life can take so long to ...

Read the full of Aubade

Home Is So Sad

Home is so sad. It stays as it was left,
Shaped to the comfort of the last to go
As if to win them back. Instead, bereft
Of anyone to please, it withers so,
Having no heart to put aside the theft

And turn again to what it started as,
A joyous shot at how things ought to be,
Long fallen wide. You can see how it was:

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