Philip Larkin （1922-1985）

She kept her songs， they took so little space，

The covers pleased her：

One bleached¹ from lying in a sunny place，

One marked in circles by a vase of water，

One mended， when a tidy fit had seized her，

And coloured， by her daughter -

So they had waited， till in widowhood

She found them， looking for something else， and stood

Relearning how each frank submissive chord

Had ushered² in

Word after sprawling³ hyphenated word，

And the unfailing sense of being young

Spread out like a spring-woken tree， wherein

That hidden freshness， sung，

That certainty of time laid up in store

As when she played them first. But， even more，

The glare of that much-mentioned brilliance⁴， love，

Broke out， to show

Its bright incipience⁵ sailing above，

Still promising⁶ to solve， and satisfy，

And set unchangeably in order. So

To pile them back， to cry，

Was hard， without lamely⁷ admitting how

It had not done so then， and could not now.