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Philip Larkin - On Being Twenty-six
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I feared these present years, 
       The middle twenties, 
When deftness disappears, 
And each event is 
Freighted with a source-encrusting doubt, 
       And turned to drought. 


I thought: this pristine drive 
       Is sure to flag 
At twenty-four or -five; 
And now the slag 
Of burnt-out childhood proves that I was right. 
       What caught alight 


Quickly consumed in me, 
       As I foresaw. 
Talent, felicity— 
These things withdraw, 
And are succeeded by a dingier crop 
       That come to stop; 


Or else, certainty gone, 
       Perhaps the rest, 
Tarnishing, linger on 
As second-best. 
Fabric of fallen minarets is trash. 
       And in the ash 


Of what has pleased and passed 
       Is now no more 
Than struts of greed, a last 
Charred smile, a clawed 
Crustacean hatred, blackened pride—of such 
       I once made much. 


And so, if I were sure 
       I have no chance 
To catch again that pure 
Unnoticed stance, 
I would calcine the outworn properties, 
       Live on what is. 


But it dies hard, that world; 
       Or, being dead, 
Putrescently is pearled, 
For I, misled, 
Make on my mind the deepest wound of all: 
       Think to recall 


At any moment, states 
       Long since dispersed; 
That if chance dissipates 
The best, the worst 
May scatter equally upon a touch. 
       I kiss, I clutch, 


Like a daft mother, putrid 
       Infancy, 
That can and will forbid 
All grist to me 
Except devaluing dichotomies: 
       Nothing, and paradise.
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