Nothing To Be Said by Philip Larkin

For nations vague as weed,
For nomads among stones,
Small-statured cross-faced tribes
And cobble-close families
In mill-towns on dark mornings
Life is slow dying.

So are their separate ways
Of building, benediction,
Measuring love and money
Ways of slow dying.
The day spent hunting pig
Or holding a garden-party,

Hours giving evidence
Or birth, advance
On death equally slowly.
And saying so to some
Means nothing; others it leaves
Nothing to be said.

by Philip Larkin

Other poems by 'Philip Larkin'

To Failure

If Hands Could Free You, Heart

MCMXIV

I Have Started To Say

Sunny Prestatyn

Money

Wedding Wind

Going

Ignorance

I Remember, I Remember

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