Philip Larkin

Waiting For Breakfast, While She Brushed Her Hair’

Waiting for breakfast, while she brushed her hair, I looked down at the empty hotel yard Once meant for coaches. Cobblestones were wet, But sent no light back to the loaded sky, Sunk as it was with mist down to the roofs. Drainpipes and fire—escape climbed up Past rooms still burning their electric light: I thought: Featureless morning, featureless night. Misjudgment: for the stones slept, and the mist Wandered absolvingly past all it touched, Yet hung like a stayed breath; the lights burnt on, Pin—points of undisturbed excitement; beyond the glass The colourless vial of day painlessly spilled My world back after a year, my lost lost world Like a cropping deer strayed near my path again, Bewaring the mind’s least clutch. Turning, I kissed her, Easily for sheer joy tipping the balance to love. But, tender visiting, Fallow as a deer or an unforced field, How would you have me? Towards your grace My promises meet and lock and race like rivers, But only when you choose. Are you jealous of her? Will you refuse to come till I have sent Her terribly away, importantly live Part invalid, part baby, and part saint?

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