Philip Larkin, “Mother, Summer, I”
My mother, who hates thunder storms,
holds up each summer day and shakes
it out suspiciously, lest swarms
of grape-dark clouds are lurking there;
but when the August weather breaks
and rains begin, and brittle frost
sharpens the bird-abandoned air,
her worried summer look is lost,
and I her son, though summer-born
and summer-loving, none the less
am easier when the leaves are gone.
Too often summer days appear
emblems of perfect happiness
I can’t confront: I must await
a time less bold, less rich, less clear:
an autumn more appropriate.
Insomniac passing anhypnic nights in writing, translation, music, mathematics, programming and whatever else captures my attention or alleviates agrypnia.
This consists mostly of quotations of things that stand out to me or reflect what's on my mind; occasionally I also post original, often more personal, content as well, which may be found under the "personal" tag. Anything posted under "translations" is also original work and may broadly be taken as personal as well as I seldom tackle a work that does not speak to or for me in some way.