Philip Larkin (1922-1985)　　She kept her songs, they took so little space,　　The covers pleased her:　　One bleached 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 ushered in　　Word after sprawling 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 brilliance, love,　　Broke out, to show　　Its bright incipience sailing above,　　Still promising to solve, and satisfy,　　And set unchangeably in order.

So　　To pile them back, to cry,　　Was hard, without lamely admitting how　　It had not done so then, and could not now.

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