In the quiet shadows where silence reigns,
Larkin contemplates the ceaseless flow,
Of time’s relentless, unyielding chains,
Where whispers of eternity softly grow.

The autumn leaves, in their gentle descent,
Mirror the fleeting breath of mortal days,
Each moment soaked in a poignant lament,
Carried by winds in their silent arrays.

Death, a familiar yet distant friend,
Looms in shadows, a silent serenade,
Larkin, with words, does softly commend,
The quietude where souls find their cascade.

In the stillness where his verses lie,
A tapestry of thought intricately spun,
Larkin finds peace beneath the vast sky,
Embracing the dusk, where all journeys begun.