Philip Larkin Poems
|83.||Home Is So Sad||1/3/2003|
|84.||For Sidney Bechet||1/3/2003|
|85.||The Whitsun Weddings||1/3/2003|
|90.||The Old Fools||1/3/2003|
|91.||An Arundel Tomb||4/2/2010|
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...
New eyes each year
Find old books here,
And new books,too,
Old eyes renew;
So youth and age
Like ink and page
In this house join,
Minting new coin.