Stopping the diary
Was a stun to memory,
Was a blank starting,
One no longer cicatrised
By such words, such actions
As blekened waking
I wanted them over,
Hurried to burial
And looked back on
Like the wars and winters
Missing behind the windows
Of an opaque childhood.
And the empty pages?
Should they ever be filled
Let it be with observed
Celestial recurrences,
The day the flowers come,
And when the birds go.
Philip Larkin in Collected Poems
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