As I bide my time, waiting for my health to return and pondering where my future will take me, this poem by Philip Larkin keeps hauting me:
What are days for?
Days are where we live.
They come, they wake us
Time and Time over.
They are to be happy in:
Where can we live but days?
Ah, solving that question
Brings the priest and the doctor
In their long coats
Running over the fields.
(Philip Larkin, 1964)
# posted by Lisbeth at: 22:44