This empty street, this sky to blandness scoured, <br />This air, a little indistinct with autumn <br />Like a reflection, constitute the present -- <br />A time traditionally soured, <br />A time unrecommended by event. <br /> <br />But equally they make up something else: <br />This is the furthest future childhood saw <br />Between long houses, under travelling skies, <br />Heard in contending bells -- <br />An air lambent with adult enterprise, <br /> <br />And on another day will be the past, <br />A valley cropped by fat neglected chances <br />That we insensately forbore to fleece. <br />On this we blame our last <br />Threadbare perspectives, seasonal decrease.<br /><br />Philip Larkin<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/triple-time/
