Sunday, March 31, 2013

Home is so sad. It stays as it was left,
Shaped to the comfort of the last to go
As if to win them back. Instead, bereft
Of anyone to please, it withers so,
Having no heart to put aside the theft

And turn again to what it started as,
A joyous shot at how things ought to be, 
Long fallen wide. You can see how it was: 
Look at the pictures and the cutlery. 
The music in the piano stool. That vase.

–Philip Larkin, found via Hila

1 comments:

  1. Oh, this poem makes me hurt. It's so true.

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