In the stillness of a fading day,
Larkin’s whispers linger, soft and gray.
A gentle pause in life’s relentless race,
Death’s quiet hand has found its place.

The library of words now gently closed,
In silent halls where thoughts reposed.
Echoes of wisdom, both sharp and kind,
Leave traces of a poet’s mind.

The shadows lengthen, the night draws near,
Yet in the darkness, there’s no fear.
For in his lines, a light remains,
A beacon through life’s winding lanes.

So let us ponder his gentle craft,
A timeless gift that ever lasts.
In the quiet of our own despair,
Larkin’s spirit lingers in the air.