Philip Larkin


My age fallen away like white swaddling Floats in the middle distance, becomes An inhabited cloud. I bend closer, discern A lighted tenement scuttling with voices. O you tall game I tired myself with joining! Now I wade through you like knee-level weeds, And they attend me, dear translucent bergs: Silence and space. By now so much has flown From the nest here of my head that I needs must turn To know what prints I leave, whether of feet, Or spoor of pads, or a bird’s adept splay.

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