To a Very Slow Air
Philip Arthur Larkin
1922 to 1985
The golden sheep are feeding, and
Their mouths harbour contentment,
Gladly my tongue praises
This hour scourged of dissension
By weight of their joyous fleeces.
The cloven hills are kneeling,
The sun such an anointment
Upon the forehead, on the hands and feet,
That all air is appointed
Our candid clothing, our elapsing state.
Philip Arthur Larkin's To a Very Slow Air
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