Philip Larkin

Philip Larkin

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Philip Arthur Larkin (9 August 1922 – 2 December 1985) was an English poet, novelist, and librarian. His first book of poetry, The North Ship, was published in 1945, followed by two novels, Jill and A Girl in Winter, and he came to prominence in 1955 with the publication of his second collection of poems, The Less Deceived, followed by The Whitsun Weddings and High Windows.
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First Sight

Lambs that learn to walk in
When their bleating clouds the
Meet a vast unwelcome,
Nothing but a sunless glare
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The Whitsun Weddings

That Whitsun,
I was late getting away:
Not till
One-twenty on the sunlit
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Love We Must Part Now

Love, we must part now: do not let it be Calamitious and bitter
In the past There has been too much moonlight and self-pity:
Let us have done with it: for now at last Never has sun more boldly paced the sky,
Never were hearts more e...
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Maiden Name

Marrying left your maiden name disused
Its five light sounds no longer mean your face,
Your voice, and all your variants of grace;
For since you were so thankfully
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Dockery And Son

'Dockery was junior to you,
Wasn't he
' said the Dean
'His son's here now
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The Old Fools

What do they think has happened, the old fools,
To make them like this
Do they somehow
It's more grown-up when your mouth hangs open and drools,
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Sunny Prestatyn

Come to Sunny
Laughed the girl on the poster,
Kneeling up on the
In tautened white satin
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Down stucco sidestreets,
Where light is
And afternoon
Brings lights on in
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Next Please

Always too eager for the future,
Pick up bad habits of expectancy
Something is always approaching; every
Till then we say,
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Lines On A Young Ladys Photograph Album

At last you yielded up the album,
Once open, sent me distracted
All your
Matt and glossy on the thick black pages
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Cut Grass

Cut grass lies frail:
Brief is the
Mown stalks exhale
Long, long the
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Reasons For Attendance

The trumpet's voice, loud and authoritative,
Draws me a moment to the lighted
To watch the dancers - all under twenty-five -Solemnly on the beat of happiness
- Or so I fancy, sensing the smoke and sweat,
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What are days for
Days are where we live
They come, they wake
Time and time over
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Strange to know nothing, never to be
Of what is true or right or real,
But forced to qualify or so I feel,
Or Well, it does seem so:
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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
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Poetry Of Departures

Sometimes you hear, fifth-hand,
As epitaph:
He chucked up
And just cleared off,
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