Philip Larkin — Climbing the hill within the deafening wind

Climbing the hill within the deafening wind The blood unfurled itself, was proudly borne High over meadows where white horses stood; Up the steep woods it echoed like a horn Till at the summit under shining trees It cried: Submission is the only good; Let me become an instrument sharply stringed For all things to strike music as they please. How to recall such music, when the street Darkens? Among the rain and stone places I find only an ancient sadness falling, Only hurrying and troubled faces, The walking of girls' vulnerable feet, The heart in its own endless silence kneeling.