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. Deceptions 4/2/2010
82. Days 4/2/2010
83. Cut Grass 4/2/2010
84. Continuing To Live 4/2/2010
85. Church Going 4/2/2010
86. Best Society 4/2/2010
87. Autobiography At An Air-Station 4/2/2010
88. Aubade 4/2/2010
89. At Grass 4/2/2010
90. Arrival 4/2/2010
91. Annus Mirabilis 4/2/2010
92. An Arundel Tomb 4/2/2010
93. Ambulances 4/2/2010
94. A Study Of Reading Habits 4/2/2010
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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