Portrait
Her hands intend no harm:
Her hands devote themselves
To sheltering a flame;
Winds are her enemies
And everything that strives
To bring her cold and darkness.
But wax and wick grow short:
These she so dearly guards
Despite her care die out;
Her hands are not strong enough
Her hands will fall to her sides
And no wind will trouble to break her grief.
- Philip Larkin
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