John Wilkins has reminded me of Philip Larkin's poem Aubade:
I work all day, and get half-drunk at night.
Waking at four to soundless dark, I stare.
In time the curtain-edges will grow light.
Till then I see what's really always there:
Unresting death, a whole day nearer now,
Making all thought impossible but how
And where and when I shall myself die.
Wander over to John's place to read the rest of the poem which strangely works well with my first post today.
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This was brought to my attention by a reader on the alt.fan.pratchett group in response to an evangeliser there. Below the fold, it really asserts how I think of death (and identifies me thus as an Epicurean).
Aubade
I work all day, and get half-drunk at night.
Waking at four to soundless dark, I…
Coincidentally, I read two contrasting poems on the same day: Shakespeare's sonnet in the Oxford book and Philip Larkin in The Nation's Favourite Twentieth Century Poems.
Shakespeare's famous 12th sonnet that urges us to procreate
When I do count the clock that tells the time,
And see the brave…
I'm fairly busy right now what with job applications, selling a house and attempting murder on my teenage son, but while all that's going on here at The Laboratory of Doom behind the scenes, here's a poem below the fold, by Philip Larkin:
Philip Larkin - Church Going
Once I am sure there's nothing…
It's all the buzz around here, so it's my turn to share some interesting verse with you. Death and dying is a common topic of discussion with my patients and colleagues.
Some of these are well-known to all, some of them aren't, but I enjoy all of them.
Conscientious Objector
--Edna St. Vincent…