Those long uneven lines <br />Standing as patiently <br />As if they were stretched outside <br />The Oval or Villa Park, <br />The crowns of hats, the sun <br />On moustached archaic faces <br />Grinning as if it were all <br />An August Bank Holiday lark; <br />And the shut shops, the bleached <br />Established names on the sunblinds, <br />The farthings and sovereigns, <br />And dark-clothed children at play <br />Called after kings and queens, <br />The tin advertisements <br />For cocoa and twist, and the pubs <br />Wide open all day; <br />And the countryside not caring <br />The place-names all hazed over <br />With flowering grasses, and fields <br />Shadowing Domesday lines <br />Under wheats' restless silence; <br />The differently-dressed servants <br />With tiny rooms in huge houses, <br />The dust behind limousines; <br />Never such innocence, <br />Never before or since, <br />As changed itself to past <br />Without a word-the men <br />Leaving the gardens tidy, <br />The thousands of marriages <br />Lasting a little while longer: <br />Never such innocence again.<br /><br />Philip Larkin<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/mcmxiv-2/
