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Poetry Of Departures

Sometimes you hear, fifth-hand,

As epitaph:

He chucked up

And just cleared off,

And always the voice will

Certain you

This audacious, purifying,

Elemental move.

And they are right,

I think.

We all hate

And having to be there:

I detest my room,

It's specially-chosen junk,

The good books, the good bed,

And my life, in perfect order:

So to hear it

He walked out on the whole

Leaves me flushed and stirred,

Like Then she undid her

Or Take that you bastard;

Surely I can, if he did?

And that helps me to

Sober and industrious.

But I'd go today,

Yes, swagger the nut-strewn roads,

Crouch in the

Stubbly with goodness, if It weren't so artificial,

Such a deliberate step

To create an object:

Books; china; a

Reprehensibly perfect.

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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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