Monday, September 9, 2013

Philip Larkin / The North Ship

Photo by Larry Clark
Philip Larkin

The bottle is drunk out by one;
at two, the book is shut;
at three, the lovers lie apart,
love and its commerce done;
and now the luminous watch-hands
show after four o’clock,
time of night when straying winds
trouble the dark.
And I am sick for want of sleep;
so sick, that I can half-believe
the soundless river pouring from the cave
is neither strong, nor deep;
only an image fancied in conceit.
I lie and wait for morning, and the birds,
the first steps going down the unswept street,
voices of girls with scarves around their heads.

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