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?

Added: on December 13th, 2005 at 5:01 AM | Viewed: 7373 times | Comments (1)

Poet: Philip Larkin
Poem: Going
Volume: The New Poetry
Poem of the Day on:
Nov 10 2005

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