Now, helpless in the hollow of. An unarmorial age, a trough. Of smoke in slow suspended skeins. Above their scrap of history, Only an attitude remains: Time has transfigured them into. Untruth. The stone finality. They hardly meant has come to be. Their final blazon, and to prove. Our almost-instinct almost true: What will survive of us is love.
Philip LarkinAbout author
- Author's profession: Poet
- Nationality: english
- Born: August 9, 1922
- Died: December 2, 1985
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Love? Be it man. Be it woman. It must be a wave you want to glide in on, give your body to it, give your laugh to it, give, when the gravelly sand takes you, your tears to the land. To love another is somethinglike prayer and can't be planned, you just fallinto its arms because your belief undoes your disbelief.
Anne Sexton