Elegy

Was looking at the old blips of Letters to you (MIA since May) earlier today, and ran across this poem.

I've read some of Larkin's work, but this one was new to me.

Anyway - loved it, and thought I'd share.



An April Sunday brings the snow
Making the blossom on the plum trees green,
Not white. An hour or two and it will go.
Strange that I spend that hour moving between

Cupboard and cupboard, shifting the store
Of jam you made of fruit from these same trees:
Five loads--a hundred pounds or more--
More than enough for all next summer's teas,

Which now you will not sit and eat.
Behind the glass, under cellophane,
Remains your final summer--sweet
And meaningless, and not to come again.

(Philip Larkin)