More about Philip Larkin
Philip Larkin -
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Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don't have any kids yourself.
Quarterly, is it, money reproaches me:
'Why do you let me lie here wastefully?
I am all you never had of goods and sex.
You could get them still by writing a few cheques.'
Rather than words comes the thought of high windows:
The sun-comprehending glass,
And beyond it, the deep blue air, that shows
Nothing, and is nowhere, and is endless.
The hardness and the brightness and the plain
Far-reaching singleness of that wide stare
Is a reminder of the strength and pain
Of being young; that it can't come again,
But is for others undiminished somewhere.
The trees are coming into leaf
Like something almost being said.
The headed paper, made for writing home (If home existed) letters of exile.
Quote of the day
Perfect freedom is reserved for the man who lives by his own work and in that work does what he wants to do.
R. G. Collingwood
August 9, 1922
December 2, 1985
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