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Vers De Société

My wife and I have asked a crowd of

To come and waste their time and ours:

You'd care to join us?

In a pig's arse, friend.

Day comes to an end.

The gas fire breathes, the trees are darkly swayed.

And so Dear Warlock-Williams:

I'm afraid—Funny how hard it is to be alone.

I could spend half my evenings, if I wanted,

Holding a glass of washing sherry,

Over to catch the drivel of some

Who's read nothing but Which;

Just think of all the spare time that has

Straight into nothingness by being

With forks and faces, rather than

Under a lamp, hearing the noise of wind,

And looking out to see the moon

To an air-sharpened blade.

A life, and yet how sternly it's

All solitude is selfish.

No one

Believes the hermit with his gown and

Talking to God (who's gone too); the big

Is to have people nice to you, which

Doing it back somehow.

Virtue is social.

Are, then, these

Playing at goodness, like going to church?

Something that bores us, something we don't do well(Asking that ass about his fool research)But try to feel, because, however crudely,

It shows us what should be?

Too subtle, that.

Too decent, too.

Oh hell,

Only the young can be alone freely.

The time is shorter now for company,

And sitting by a lamp more often

Not peace, but other things.

Beyond the light stand failure and

Whispering Dear Warlock-Williams:

Why, of course—

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Philip Larkin

Philip Arthur Larkin (9 August 1922 – 2 December 1985) was an English poet, novelist, and librarian. His first book of poetry, The North Ship, w…
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