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. A Study Of Reading Habits 4/2/2010
2. Ambulances 4/2/2010
3. An Arundel Tomb 4/2/2010
4. Annus Mirabilis 4/2/2010
5. Arrival 4/2/2010
6. At Grass 4/2/2010
7. Aubade 4/2/2010
8. Autobiography At An Air-Station 4/2/2010
9. Best Society 4/2/2010
10. Church Going 4/2/2010
11. Continuing To Live 4/2/2010
12. Cut Grass 4/2/2010
13. Days 4/2/2010
14. Deceptions 4/2/2010
15. Dockery And Son 4/2/2010
16. Dublinesque 4/2/2010
17. Essential Beauty 4/2/2010
18. Faith Healing 1/3/2003
19. Far Out 1/3/2003
20. First Sight 4/2/2010
21. For Sidney Bechet 1/3/2003
22. Friday Night At The Royal Station Hotel 1/3/2003
23. Going 1/3/2003
24. He Hears That His Beloved Has Become Engaged 1/3/2003
25. High Windows 1/3/2003
26. Homage To A Government 1/3/2003
27. Home Is So Sad 1/3/2003
28. How Distant 1/3/2003
29. I Have Started To Say 1/3/2003
30. I Remember, I Remember 1/3/2003
31. If Hands Could Free You, Heart 1/3/2003
32. Ignorance 1/3/2003
33. Is It For Now Or For Always 1/3/2003
34. Letter To A Friend About Girls 4/2/2010
35. Library Ode 1/3/2003
36. Like The Train's Beat 1/3/2003
37. Lines On A Young Lady's Photograph Album 1/3/2003
38. Long Sight In Age 1/3/2003
39. Love Songs In Age 1/3/2003
40. Love, We Must Part Now 1/3/2003
Best Poem of Philip Larkin

Church Going

Once I am sure there's nothing going on
I step inside, letting the door thud shut.
Another church: matting, seats, and stone,
And little books; sprawlings of flowers, cut
For Sunday, brownish now; some brass and stuff
Up at the holy end; the small neat organ;
And a tense, musty, unignorable silence,
Brewed God knows how long. Hatless, I take off
My cycle-clips in awkward reverence,

Move forward, run my hand around the font.
From where I stand, the roof looks almost new-
Cleaned or restored? Someone would know: I don't.
Mounting the lectern, I...

Read the full of Church Going

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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