“Nothing more terrible, nothing more true”

John Wilkins has reminded me of Philip Larkin's poem 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.

Wander over to John's place to read the rest of the poem which strangely works well with my first post today.


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