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.
81. To Put One Brick Upon Another 1/3/2003
82. Toads 1/3/2003
83. Toads Revisited 1/3/2003
84. TrÄUmerei 1/13/2003
85. Triple Time 1/3/2003
86. Vers De SociÉTÉ 1/13/2003
87. Wants 1/3/2003
88. Water 1/3/2003
89. Wedding Wind 1/13/2003
90. Whatever Happened? 1/3/2003
91. When First We Faced, And Touching Showed 1/13/2003
92. Why Did I Dream Of You Last Night? 1/3/2003
93. Wild Oats 1/3/2003
94. Wires 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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