The Reverberate Hills; or The Apotheosis of the Narwhal

Both of these poems are by the late British poet Philip Larkin: Days What are days for? Days are where we live. They come, they wake us Time...

Artificial year, Fare thee well -- I paid you mind, And what do I know

We lock Nature out Although she comes anyway -- Above, below, through

yellow, red, and blue, at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York

Dark clouds unraining Swelling over unseeded And expectant earth

Alone at the shore Contemplative trees twist out To rolling breakers

outside Lincoln Center

So low in the sky So clear, so blindingly bright White midwinter sun

Christmas lights twinkle Softly against cloudy skies And slashes of rain