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. Ignorance 1/3/2003
83. For Sidney Bechet 1/3/2003
84. Days 4/2/2010
85. Ambulances 4/2/2010
86. Talking In Bed 1/3/2003
87. The Whitsun Weddings 1/3/2003
88. Far Out 1/3/2003
89. High Windows 1/3/2003
90. The Old Fools 1/3/2003
91. An Arundel Tomb 4/2/2010
92. Faith Healing 1/3/2003
93. Church Going 4/2/2010
94. Aubade 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

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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