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. Story 1/3/2003
2. The Little Lives Of Earth And Form 1/3/2003
3. New Eyes Each Year 1/3/2003
4. Send No Money 1/3/2003
5. The Spirit Wooed 1/1/2004
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. Maturity 1/3/2003
22. The Mower 1/3/2003
23. Reasons For Attendance 1/3/2003
24. Mother, Summer, I 1/3/2003
25. I Have Started To Say 1/3/2003
26. How Distant 1/3/2003
27. The Importance Of Elsewhere 1/3/2003
28. If Hands Could Free You, Heart 1/3/2003
29. Wants 1/3/2003
30. To My Wife 1/13/2003
31. Whatever Happened? 1/3/2003
32. The School In August 1/3/2003
33. The Building 1/3/2003
34. Next Please 1/3/2003
35. I Remember, I Remember 1/3/2003
36. Maiden Name 1/3/2003
37. Mcmxiv 1/3/2003
38. To Put One Brick Upon Another 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

Mother, Summer, I

My mother, who hates thunder storms,
Holds up each summer day and shakes
It out suspiciously, lest swarms
Of grape-dark clouds are lurking there;
But when the August weather breaks
And rains begin, and brittle frost
Sharpens the bird-abandoned air,
Her worried summer look is lost,

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