Philip Larkin Poems

In frames as large as rooms that face all ways
And block the ends of streets with giant loaves,
...

There is an evening coming in
Across the fields, one never seen before,
That lights no lamps.
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Sometimes you hear, fifth-hand,
As epitaph:
He chucked up everything
And just cleared off,
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Down stucco sidestreets,
Where light is pewter
And afternoon mist
Brings lights on in shops
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Is it for now or for always,
The world hangs on a stalk?
Is it a trick or a trysting-place,
The woods we have found to walk?
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Lambs that learn to walk in snow
When their bleating clouds the air
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Continuing to live - that is, repeat
A habit formed to get necessaries -
Is nearly always losing, or going without.
It varies.
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When I was a child, I thought,
Casually, that solitude
Never needed to be sought.
Something everybody had,
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If I were called in
To construct a religion
I should make use of water.
...

After comparing lives with you for years
I see how I’ve been losing: all the while
I’ve met a different gauge of girl from yours.
...