Morning, a glass door, flashes <br />Gold names off the new city, <br />Whose white shelves and domes travel <br />The slow sky all day. <br />I land to stay here; <br />And the windows flock open <br />And the curtains fly out like doves <br />And a past dries in a wind. <br /> <br />Now let me lie down, under <br />A wide-branched indifference, <br />Shovel-faces like pennies <br />Down the back of the mind, <br />Find voices coined to <br />An argot of motor-horns, <br />And let the cluttered-up houses <br />Keep their thick lives to themselves. <br /> <br />For this ignorance of me <br />Seems a kind of innocence. <br />Fast enough I shall wound it: <br />Let me breathe till then <br />Its milk-aired Eden, <br />Till my own life impound it- <br />Slow-falling; grey-veil-hung; a theft, <br />A style of dying only.<br /><br />Philip Larkin<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/arrival-14/
