A poem for Tuesday

I know, another poem so soon. You'll all get bored of me any day now. And I'll be left reciting poetry to myself, making myself memorize it so I can catch the cadence and the sometimes rhyme and hear my voice crack a bit when it moves me too much. Until I make myself go back again and recite it right and wear it all down.

Love Songs in the Age
She kept her songs, they kept so little space,
The covers pleased her:

One bleached from lying in a sunny place,

One marked in circles by a vase of water,
One mended, when a tidy fit had seized her,
And coloured, by her daughter -
So they had waited, till, in widowhood
She found them, looking for something else, and stood

Relearning how each frank submissive chord

Had ushered in

Word after sprawling hyphenated word,

And the unfailing sense of being young

Spread out like a spring-woken tree, wherein
That hidden freshness sung,
That certainty of time laid up in store

As when she played them first. But, even more,

The glare of that much-mentioned brilliance, love,
Broke out, to show
Its bright incipience sailing above,

Still promising to solve, and satisfy,

And set unchangeably in order. So

To pile them back, to cry,

Was hard, without lamely admitting how
It had not done so then, and could not now.

- Philip Larkin
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