lirik lagu philip larkin - an arundel tomb / mr. bleaney
side by side, their faces blurred
the earl and countess lie in stone
their proper habits vaguely shown
as jointed armour, stiffened pleat
and that faint hint of the absurd—
the little dogs under their feet
such plainness of the pre~baroque
hardly involves the eye, until
it meets his left~hand gauntlet, still
clasped empty in the other; and
one sees, with a sharp tender shock
his hand withdrawn, holding her hand
they would not think to lie so long
such faithfulnеss in effigy
was just a detail friends would see:
a sculptor’s sweet commissionеd grace
thrown off in helping to prolong
the latin names around the base
they would not guess how early in
their supine stationary voyage
the air would change to soundless damage
turn the old tenantry away;
how soon succeeding eyes begin
to look, not read. rigidly they
persisted, linked, through lengths and breadths
of time. snow fell, undated. light
each summer thronged the glass. a bright
litter of birdcalls strewed the same
bone~riddled ground. and up the paths
the endless altered people came
washing at their identity
now, helpless in the hollow of
an unarmorial age, a trough
of smoke in slow suspended skeins
above their scr~p of history
only an attitude remains:
time has transfigured them into
untruth. the stone fidelity
they hardly meant has come to be
their final blazon, and to prove
our almost~instinct almost true:
what will survive of us is love
‘this was mr bleaney’s room. he stayed
the whole time he was at the bodies, till
they moved him.’ flowered curtains, thin and frayed
fall to within five inches of the sill
whose window shows a strip of building land
tussocky, littered. ‘mr bleaney took
my bit of garden properly in hand.’
bed, upright chair, sixty~watt bulb, no hook
behind the door, no room for books or bags ~
‘i’ll take it.’ so it happens that i lie
where mr bleaney lay, and stub my f~gs
on the same saucer~souvenir, and try
stuffing my ears with cotton~wool, to drown
the jabbering set he egged her on to buy
i know his habits ~ what time he came down
his preference for sauce to gravy, why
he kept on plugging at the four aways ~
likewise their yearly frame: the frinton folk
who put him up for summer holidays
and christmas at his sister’s house in stoke
but if he stood and watched the frigid wind
tousling the clouds, lay on the fusty bed
telling himself that this was home, and grinned
and shivered, without shaking off the dread
that how we live measures our own nature
and at his age having no more to show
than one hired box should make him pretty sure
he warranted no better, i don’t know
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