There is an evening coming in
Across the fields, one never seen before,
That lights no lamps.
 
Silken it seems at a distance, yet
When it is drawn up over the knees and breast
It brings no comfort.
 
Where has the tree gone, that locked
Earth to sky? What is under my hands,
That I cannot feel?
 
What loads my hand down?

  • 0
  • 0
  •  
  •  
Entrar para comentar...

Preferido o celebrado por...

Email

Otras obras de Philip Larkin...

Algunos poetas que siguen a Philip Larkin...

C. Knappe Anaru Gul Jonathan De Oliveira saba saba Velimir Makaveev laura bloomsbury