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Mostrando postagens com o rótulo Philip Larkin

Aubade

I work all day, and get half-drunk at night.  Waking at four to soundless dark, I stare.  In time the curtain-edges will grow light.  Till then I see what’s really always there:  Unresting death, a whole day nearer now,  Making all thought impossible but how  And where and when I shall myself die.  Arid interrogation: yet the dread  Of dying, and being dead,  Flashes afresh to hold and horrify.  The mind blanks at the glare. Not in remorse  —The good not done, the love not given, time  Torn off unused—nor wretchedly because  An only life can take so long to climb  Clear of its wrong beginnings, and may never;  But at the total emptiness for ever,  The sure extinction that we travel to  And shall be lost in always. Not to be here,  Not to be anywhere,  And soon; nothing more terrible, nothing more true.  This is a special way of being afraid  No trick dispels. Religion used to try,  That vast moth-eaten musical brocade  Created to pretend we never die,  And specious stuff that says No