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More poems by Philip LarkinPhilip Larkin | Print this page.Print | View and Write CommentsComments | Books by Philip LarkinBooks by Philip Larkin

Arrival

Philip Larkin

Morning, a glass door, flashes
Gold names off the new city,
Whose white shelves and domes travel
The slow sky all day.
I land to stay here;
And the windows flock open
And the curtains fly out like doves
And a past dries in a wind.

Now let me lie down, under
A wide-branched indifference,
Shovel-faces like pennies
Down the back of the mind,
Find voices coined to
An argot of motor-horns,
And let the cluttered-up houses
Keep their thick lives to themselves.

For this ignorance of me
Seems a kind of innocence.
Fast enough I shall wound it:
Let me breathe till then
Its milk-aired Eden,
Till my own life impound it-
Slow-falling; grey-veil-hung; a theft,
A style of dying only.

Added: 24 Jun 2002 | Last Read: 19 Dec 2018 4:19 AM | Viewed: 11741 times

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URL: http://plagiarist.com/poetry/4828/ | Viewed on 19 December 2018.
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