In silent corridors where shadows creep,
Echoes of a poet’s heart now sleep.
Words once vibrant, now in stillness lie,
Beneath the weeping of the twilight sky.

The library of life, its pages turned,
In every line, his soul discerned.
A mirror to the mundane, clear and bright,
Now cloaked in the solemn veil of night.

The clock ticks on, but time stands still,
In the quiet of the poet’s will.
His verses, whispers of the past,
Through the ages, they will last.

A legacy in ink, forever cast,
In the realm where shadows dance and pass.
Philip Larkin, in death, still breathes,
In every word the heart perceives.