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 Morning, a glass door, flashes
Gold names off the new city,
Whose white shelves and domes travel
The slow sky all day.
I land to stay here; And the windows flock open And the curtains fly out like doves And a past dries in a wind.
Now let me lie down, under A wide-branched indifference, Shovel-faces like pennies Down the back of the mind, Find voices coined to An argot of motor-horns, And let the cluttered-up houses Keep their thick lives to themselves.
For this ignorance of me Seems a kind of innocence.
Fast enough I shall wound it: Let me breathe till then Its milk-aired Eden, Till my own life impound it- Slow-falling; grey-veil-hung; a theft, A style of dying only.

by Philip Larkin
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