Poetry

Going

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 the sky? What is under my hands, That I cannot feel?

What loads my hands down?

Philip Larkin

His first book of poetry, The North Ship, was published in 1945 .