I know, I know. Another Philip Larkin poem. But this time it has a purpose, I promise! Tomorrow is Larkin's birthday (look for the special post), so it's only fitting that I give him this week's poetry honors, since he's my favorite English-language poet and all. This one's short and sweet, with an image at the end that's both disturbing and funny at the same time. Enjoy!
Days, by Philip Larkin
What are days for?
Days are where we live.
They come, they wake us
Time and time over.
They are to be happy in:
Where can we live but days?
Ah, solving that question
Brings the priest and the doctor
In their long coats
Running over the fields.
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