An Arundel Tomb by Philip Larkin

(image from Wikipedia)

Our friend Andrew was over for dinner the other night. Finally, I had someone to discuss literature with for a while! He has been kind enough to send me a poem by Philip Larkin, An Arundel Tomb. Having just read it, I have to share it here with you. It is a beautiful poem, which you could also use as a guide; how to view the tomb, how it is decorated, how to read. It gives you an idea how to look and interpret heritage monuments. After having read the "Poem Guide by Jeremy Axelrod, 2009" that he also sent me, I am lost in this poem. I have to read and re-read it many times. What a good start to the day, when you find something like this to think of and enjoy for times to come. I definitely have to look into Philip Larkin's work after this introduction. Thank you, Andrew.

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His hand withdrawn, holding her hand.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 faithfulness in effigy

Was just a detail friends would see:

A sculptor’s sweet commissioned 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 scrap 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.