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Interior with Ida in a White Chair, by Vilhelm Hammershøi
Philip Larkin

Philip Larkin

Days

What are days for?
Days are where we live.  
They come, they wake us  
Time and time over.
They are to be happy in:  
Where can we live but days?
 
Ah, solving that question
Brings the priest and the doctor  
In their long coats
Running over the fields.

#English #XXCentury

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At one the wind rose, And with it the noise Of the black poplars. Long since had the living By a thin twine
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Beyond the dark cartoons Are darker spaces where Small cloudy nests of stars Seem to float on air. These have no proper names:
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Continuing to live—that is, repeat A habit formed to get necessaries— Is nearly always losing, or going… It varies. This loss of interest, hair, and e…
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Light spreads darkly downwards fro… Clusters of lights over empty chai… That face each other, coloured dif… Through open doors, the dining—roo… A larger loneliness of knives and…
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I thought it would last my time— The sense that, beyond the town, There would always be fields and f… Where the village louts could clim… Such trees as were not cut down;
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