Two poems about the passage of time and things that cannot be recaptured. They were bought together in an email conversation.
This is the first thing I have understood: Time is the echo of an axe Within a wood.
- Philip Larkin from 'The North Ship' collection, 1945
The SighLittle head against my shoulder,Shy at first, then somewhat bolder,And up eyed;Till she, with a timid quaver,Yielded to the kiss I gave her;But, she sighed.That there mingled with her feelingSome sad thought she was concealingIt implied.- Not that she had ceased to love me,None on earth she set above me;But she sighed.She could not disguise a passion,Dread, or doubt, in weakest fasionIf she tried:Nothing seemed to hold us sundered,Hearts were victors; so I wonderedWhy she sighed.Afterwards I knew her thoroughly,And she loved me staunchly, truly,Till she died;But she never made confessionWhy, at that first sweet concession,She had sighed.It was in our May, remember;And though now I near NovemberAnd abideTill my appointed change, unfretting,Sometimes I sit half regrettingThat she sighed.- Thomas Hardy