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My age fallen away like white swaddling Floats in the middle distance, becomes An inhabited cloud.

Philip Larkin

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Philip Larkin
Age: 63 †
Born: 1922
Born: August 9
Died: 1985
Died: December 2
Critic
Journalist
Librarian
Music Critic
Music Journalist
Novelist
Poet
Writer
Coventry
England
UK
Philip Arthur Larkin
Age
Floats
White
Cloud
Away
Aging
Like
Fallen
Clouds
Distance
Becomes
Middle
Inhabited

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Only one ship is seeking us, a black-Sailed unfamiliar, towing at her backA huge and birdless silence. In her wakeNo waters breed or break.
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Depression hangs over me as if I were Iceland.
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The breath that sharpens life is life itself.
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Get stewed:Books are a load of crap.
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... everyone young going down the long slide To happiness, endlessly.
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The difficult part of love Is being selfish enough.
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He married a woman to stop her getting away Now she's there all day.
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In everyone there sleeps. A sense of life lived according to love. To some it means the difference they could make. By loving others, but across most it sweeps. As all they might have done had they been loved. That nothing cures.
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Now, helpless in the hollow of An unarmorial age, a trough Of smoke in slow suspended skeins Above their scrap of history, Only an attitude remains: Time has transfigured them into Untruth. The stone finality They hardly meant has come to be Their final blazon, and to prove Our almost-instinct almost true: What will survive of us is love.
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But, o, photography! as no art is,Faithful and disappointing! That recordsDull days as dull, and hold-it smiles as frauds,And will not censor blemishes,Like washing-lines, and Hall's-Distemper boards
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Still, vicious or virtuous, Love suits most of us.
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One of the sadder things, I think, Is how our birthdays slowly sink: Presents and parties disappear, The cards grow fewer year by year, Till, when one reaches sixty-five, How many care we're still alive?
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Living in England has no such excuse: These are my customs and establishments.
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What are days for? Days are where we live.
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Any memory for the most part depending on chance.
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The trees are coming into leaf Like something almost being said.
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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
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I work all day, and get half-drunk at night.
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A writer once said to me, If you ever go to America, go either to the East Coast or the West Coast: The rest is a desert full of bigots. That's what I think I'd like . . . a version of pastoral.
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Poetry should begin with emotion in the poet, and end with the same emotion in the reader. The poem is simply the instrument of transferance.
Philip Larkin