In the quiet corners of his verse,
Larkin spoke of death’s silent embrace,
Whispers of an end, inevitable and terse,
A journey we all must face.

He painted life with somber hues,
A fleeting dance on borrowed time,
Where shadows stretch and skies refuse
To promise more than a simple rhyme.

In libraries of fading tomes,
He sought solace from life’s dread,
Finding in the ancient homes
A peace among the unread.

Yet, in his words, a light persists,
A gentle hope in mortality’s gaze,
For though the end exists,
Life’s brief candle dares to blaze.