Morning At Last: There in the Snow by Philip Larkin
Haven’t been sleeping right these past few days. My morning’s the night, my night’s the morning, or sometimes, the afternoon. I hardly make sense anymore, most of all to myself, but I suppose one is entitled to such period of madness.
Morning At Last: There in the Snow
Morning at last: there in the snow
Your small blunt footprints come and go.
Night has left no more to show,
Not the candle, the half-drunk wine,
Or touching joy; only this sign
Of your life walking into mine.
But when they vanish with the rain
What morning woke to will remain
Whether as happiness or pain.