Story

Philip Larkin

Tired of a landscape known too well when young:
The deliberate shallow hills, the boring birds
Flying past rocks; tired of remembering
The village children and their naughty words,
He abandoned his small holding and went South,
Recognised at once his wished-for lie
In the inhabitants' attractive mouth,
The church beside the marsh, the hot blue sky.

Settled.  And in this mirage lived his dreams,
The friendly bully, saint, or lovely chum
According to his moods.  Yet he at times
Would think about his village, and would wonder
If the children and the rocks were still the same.

But he forgot all this as he grew older.

Next 10 Poems

• Philip Larkin : Sunny Prestatyn
• Philip Larkin : Take One Home For The Kiddies
• Philip Larkin : Talking In Bed
• Philip Larkin : The Building
• Philip Larkin : The Explosion
• Philip Larkin : The Importance Of Elsewhere
• Philip Larkin : The Little Lives Of Earth And Form
• Philip Larkin : The Mower
• Philip Larkin : The North Ship
• Philip Larkin : The Old Fools

Previous 10 Poems

• Philip Larkin : Solar
• Philip Larkin : Skin
• Philip Larkin : Since The Majority Of Me
• Philip Larkin : Send No Money
• Philip Larkin : Sad Steps
• Philip Larkin : Reasons For Attendance
• Philip Larkin : Poetry Of Departures
• Philip Larkin : Nothing To Be Said
• Philip Larkin : No Road
• Philip Larkin : Night-music