In the quiet of the library’s hall,
Where shadows linger, whispers call,
There lies a poet, silent and still,
Whose words once held the world at will.

The clock ticks on, relentless time,
Unfazed by verse or metered rhyme,
Yet in each line he left behind,
His spirit lives, his thoughts confined.

The autumn leaves, they fall and fade,
As memories of Larkin’s words cascade,
Through pages worn and voices hushed,
A legacy in silence brushed.

Though death has claimed his mortal breath,
His poetry defies the grasp of death,
For in each heart that feels his pain,
Philip Larkin’s words remain.