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


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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